


What If The Storm Ends?

by mussings_over_tea



Series: Stages of Grief [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: (if it's triggering anyone) i try to justify myself in the notes, (kinda when they finally get there THEY DO A LOT), (literally it took them 4987979 words before Nick WON THAT GRAND SLAM if ya know what i mean HMMM, (yes you read that correctly), Bachata Dancing, Bachata as tennis metaphor, Blasphemy, F/F, Infertility, M/M, Marathon Sex, Porn with Feelings, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, also even though they did a lot of things already it's a massive, because i somehow remain pretentious and use religious metaphor in bdsm scenes, cos as we've already established i have no chill over this person from australia, inappropriate use of tennis racket, mostly this is their grand happy end and i am wrung and done and thank you goodnight the end, or as my friend suggested, to a very, unorthodox use of tennis racket, unrealistic sex stamina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22049098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mussings_over_tea/pseuds/mussings_over_tea
Summary: How much does it take to get to the acceptance stage? or Rafa and Nick in the aftermath of what happened in Paris between them.
Relationships: Nick Kyrgios/Rafael Nadal, Rafael Nadal/María Francisca Perello, Rafael Nadal/Nick Kyrgios
Series: Stages of Grief [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586404
Comments: 11
Kudos: 14





	What If The Storm Ends?

Rafa wakes up with a gasp, like he’s drowning, even though he’s an islander and water has always been his element but sometimes or often, your body mutates the material you’re made of and makes you a stranger in your own skin. He’s lying in bed, paralysed and stiff and for a moment registering where he is and what time is it. Not time. No. More like what era? Is it before he turned to a living dead, a ghost, debris of irrelevant?

The spot next to him is empty and it’s enough of a reminder for him. Cold and sharp. Like a dagger straight to the heart. He even feels the sensation inside his chest. As he does often and it’s followed with his lungs contracting and becoming smaller and smaller.

“You do know these are common symptoms of anxiety disorder?” Rafael pesters him often and loudly when they go through Rafa’s daily dose of physiotherapy. Just to keep him more or less in shape, because there are no more events on his schedule to train for and no more battles to win with his body as unfailing weapon. No. His body is broken and there are no more victories to come.

And he really has no more strength left to even bitterly laugh about it. On top of the ruin that his health has become he only needs that refuge he always sought and found foolproof, his mental strength, to crumble too, into irreparable pieces.

What else? He stopped asking this question a long time ago, not to provoke the fate anymore. Not to make the fate eager to respond in bulks.

He’s awake now, the place by his side in the bed, empty, sobering him into consciousness. It’s the crack of dawn. That’s what he has drilled into his body (amid so many routines, muscle memory carries, making him a Pavlovian creature of habits, memories and echoes of yesterday).

He’s always up before 5, like he used to be for the morning routine. 

He keeps his diet to keep the energy level up, as if he needs it to maintain the position on tour, to continue to give his all. As if he is a part of the tour at all.

He counts the months with the tournaments. This is how he exists in time and space. How he’s always done. From competition to competition. It’s not January. It’s Australia to him. It’s not June. It’s London. The autumn is red leaves of the maple trees on Manhattan streets.

May hurts the most. May makes him wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and panting, like a war victim or trauma survivor, every night. He thinks the sheets he wakes up in, damp and sweaty, are red, red, red. Like clay of Philippe Chatrier, melting in the rain, flowing like red tears.

He checks the weather application for the open roof courts. Before the masters. As if it matters. As if he’s going even as a spectator. He browses through the news during breakfast, like falling behind leaves him even more of an obsolete monument covered in dust.

He watches the matches, numbed with painkillers, numbed with years and years of practice of mental steel, of almost obsessive focus, allowing him to detach himself enough from distractions (from pain, from shame, from anger) and turn into almost casual viewer.

He’s a map of dates and markings and events, his skin like parchment, the scars from the past like ink. He’s a living, physical tennis vessel, in a way he organized his entire life. In a way he just is.

He keeps the trophies in a separate room, though. Like mausoleum of the dead. It’s cold and haunting there, like it might be in an ancient tomb of ancient times that sometimes feel like they never happened. Except they did and he carries the constant physical pain of them and hollowing ache inside, too.

The house is empty. Unwelcoming. It used to be filled with people. Before every tour, hustle and bustle of preparations. Tennis equipment scattered everywhere, the buzz of excitement, family and friends chattering over shouts of “Hurry up!” and orders to “Make it fast” and complaints about “The mess is so tragic I don’t think I can find my son in it!”.

The house is now just this. A house. Not a home, anymore. With a room like a sarcophagus where his heart is buried six feet under.

This house is just the house, not a home it was supposed to grow into, filled with giggling kids, smells of family dinners, loud family celebrations. Filled with togetherness.

He lives here alone, with people visiting (checking up on him, really), the gym, the swimming pool, the beach, the court – unfitting puzzles of a fancy businessman, no longer a sports gladiator. And with this forbidden curse still taking up the entire presence, sucking up the remaining life out of this place.

Today it’s Carlos’ turn to babysit, apparently. He’s wired with Rafa’s routine after all that time stuck together in one, so he’s waiting downstairs with a perfect, nutritious breakfast, bought from the bakery on the way to Rafa’s residence.

The beats from the past recreated perfectly. Down to the tee. They are both puppets of nostalgia and grief combined.

“Thanks, babe,” Rafa smirks, wiping his freshly showered hair with a towel and taking the plate with fruit, toasts and rolls. “But I’m a big boy, you know, and I’m great in the kitchen.”

“Call me a sentimental fool, then, but I love these quiet little moments in the morning with you and can’t start my day any other way,” Carlos pops is a grape into his mouth with a teasing smile and follows Rafa to the balcony to fulfill their dose of everyday tradition.

The morning smells like salt of the ocean and fresh breeze from the fruits markets. Birds are loudly announcing perfect, sunny June day (grass season in bloom, Rafa brushes the thought away, knowing it will take roots in the back of his head and fester there, anyway). Sitting on the porch, drinking green tea, the sound of waves the air of Mallorca seems to be filled with permanently, Carlos munching on the sweet rolls he supposedly brought for Rafa unfailingly by his side, makes Rafa hopeful, it makes him lighter. To the point of almost forgetting about waking up drenched in cold sweat to feeling of suffocating on the impossible and hopeless.

The sun brushes the sky lightly, not much yet above the horizon, but Rafa feels warm on his skin, like he used to. An islander, commanding water, wearing sunrays on his skin like he was born from the very core of this star. 

“Mery says hi and reminds you about consulting that business plan with her till the end of this month, with the emphasis of this month, Rafa,” Carlos now gets to his toasts, as the tradition entails, very nonchalant about it, as if he’s not living with Maria now and it’s Rafa he’s married to.

“Yes, mom,” Rafa chuckles to his cup of tea, admiring the view of green, blue, warm and liberating around his residence. This place is huge and it’s been so empty, like an abandoned museum of untouchable, sterile stillness. He notices this, now. Somehow. In the face of the changes. Maybe. Hopefully. That’s why he feels lighter. That’s why his skin feels warm, like it remembers the sun. “Congratulations on the promotion, too. You’re now the secretary, si?”

“Shut up, hombre and do what she says or we’re both screwed.”

The silence that follows is comfortable. People that have known each other their entire life occupying each other’s spaces with ease. People who have shared everything, their love for tennis, their dedication to hard work, their willingness for challenges (Carlos guided him through breaking the mould uncle Toni always refused to give in to, clinging to old ways, clinging to holy tradition of the routine). And finally sharing love for the same people. Rafa’s house was always full of family and friends, close, together, bound by tennis, and loyalty and love to each other. To the point of the lines blurring. To the point of friends becoming family.

So, when Mery moved out to live with Carlos there was no bitterness, no accusation. There was natural and inevitable. There was organic. Just friends becoming family.

So, when the friends and the family stopped filling up the space of this place with their chatter, vivid presence and their passion and their heart, the home turned to just a house, dystopian fortress of solitude in contrast.

He didn’t drive them away. No. He refused to keep them hostage to his grief, though. Because in their love and loyalty they were willing to wither away with him at some point. So he cast them away to the side of the living, while he wrestled with his demons. Seeking distractions somewhere else. Putting that iron leash on someone else.

Speaking of.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Carlos asks after a while, finishing up his toast, looking at Rafa with gentle confusion. Not knowing what happened in Paris. Still not knowing what’s been going on in Rafa’s head lately at all. At which stage was he. Was this bargaining? Anger? Or finally despair, a prelude to acceptance.

“Si. I do. I have faith,” Rafa says undisputedly, with firmness of someone as devoted to something as he was before they opened the Academy.

“Faith is all you are, Rafael. _Now, I have sent you Raphael_ , si?” Carlos muses, munching on the watermelon, still softness around his eyes and on his mouth speaks for itself.

“Didn’t I make the impossible happen often in the past?” Rafa teases with his eyebrow.

Carlos chuckles in approval, slurping on the juice from his fingers. Yes. Rafa was always the impossible, the deliverer of faith and miracles doer. And this wasn’t only some project, Rafa was planning to invest his time in. To work on it like it’s an enterprise and he’s a craftsman to mend and fix.

No. This was about healing.

Together.

And reaching the heights and remembering what sun feels like when you don’t carry only cold and dark inside.

“Whatever you say chief. It’s not like I didn’t see you come back from 5:1 to win the entire match. How hard this can be in comparison?”

Rafa hums to himself in reflection. Feeling hope flutter inside him for the first time in a very long time. (Maybe it did, before, when after methodical and purposeful fucking came the affection, these hands seeking him in hungry desperation to adore, these hands he rejected, because for so long he repeated to himself to be under steel control he forgot what it means to fall apart and be caught).

There’s hope to rebuild, to heal and to refill this space with life and presence, again. He looks at his watch (an echo of the past, he’s still wearing his sponsors, like a legend should, obligated by history).

One hour and he will know. He will see. Where do they stand? How close to the stage of acceptance they can be?

*

Rafa thinks he would recognize Nick anywhere in the world. It’s not a matter of familiarity with everything physical Nick is. At least, not only this. He saw Nick grow and become on court after all. He saw him from the very beginning of his professional career, through struggles of it that often led through clashes with Rafa. He saw Nick crash and burn on court, fall apart and become again. He knows his mannerisms, his grace and his strength by heart. The way he moves on court, arrogance crumbling into hunching fear of failure.

He saw Nick melt under his hands, mould to his touch, seek him, open up for him with everything he is. Oh, yes. There is familiarity there. He thinks he could even call intimacy.

There are not that many people o the airport, no masses to hide him. But even if there were, he would still be the very core of this place. A star among greyness. That uniqueness he shines with. Tall, lean and yet always hiding within himself. Stomping with confidence and yet looking like a boy wearing too big clothes after his older brother. Headphones separating him from the rest of the world’s judgment, pressing expectations, rushing demands. Thick, curly, unruly mop of hair, always touched by all colours of rainbow (this time it’s red, like red of torero luring the bull in). A basketball fan in everything he wears, in a way he moves, with a tennis racket across his shoulder like a statement of defiance and challenge he always has at everything and everyone. As if they are there to doubt him. As if they are there to undermine him.

Rafael has faith, though. As it was meant to be. As his path always led him to.

He thinks the sun already feels warmer.

He goes to Nick, looking confused but acting tough (this is what he does, almost always, hiding vulnerability, unless it’s Rafa’s hands unwrapping him) and he says to his back, playful and light.

“Hi, stranger. Going my way?” 

Nick turns around, his entire tennis equipment and a giant bag probably filled with shoes and tank tops in abundance (how does Rafa know this? How is Rafa sure of this? Like they spent their life together? Like they know each other’s habits? Maybe they did. It’s been over a decade, on court and off court, chase game, wasn’t it?). Before he composes himself into usual sneering expression, Rafa thinks he notices the spark of eagerness, of joy, of disarming, almost childlike relief. Over him being lost and now being found.

“Depends. If there’s food, preferably lots of it, then I might,” there’s also awkwardness of gestures unfulfilled between them. Nick stops himself from reaching out and what? Clasping their hands like they often did over the net? Pulling him close with a hug like they are best friends? As if Rafa didn’t see him bend and break for him, arch to every touch like he might die without it.

Rafa himself pauses with a hand going to Nick’s cheek, apologetic, asking for permission, gentle? He doesn’t know where they are and how far to acceptance there is for them, so he settles with Nick’s shoulder and neutral, casual pet of colleagues. “Good to know your priorities are so easy to predict, chiquito. I know just the place.”

“Please tell me, we’re not starting with my cardio by having me walk down there with all that shit?” Nick groans, still leaning to the touch, leaning closer, like gravity between them stretches over miles and never lets them stray too far to let go.

“That’s an idea,” Rafa raises his eyebrow in amusement, in tease. To Nick mumbling his: “That’s hilarious, bro.” Looking entirely defensive and practically bristling in apprehension.

Nick is like an open book to him and Rafa wonders when did it happen? How does he know which strings to pull to make him grunt back his snarky remark or which to have him arch for more, too? Maybe it happened somewhere in between of them clashing on court, growing as tennis players and meeting in bodies yearning for more?

“We have time to get you there, my young apprentice,” Rafa fails in sounding British at all most probably but the flash of ache in Nick’s eyes tells him the attempt didn’t go unnoticed.

“Can’t wait,” and so his cry of protest is softened and far from convincing.

“Leave your things here, Nick. Guys from the Academy will take care of it,” Rafa instructs and indicates for them to go, letting Nick ahead of himself.

Nick doesn’t move. He asks, ”Take care of it?” fixing his racket on his shoulder, as if clinging to it, like his shield or last line of a defense. The ground between them is slippery. The path is blurred. Even if the sun feels warm on Rafa’s skin and fills him up with faith. That they can be fixed. That they can heal.

“They will deliver it home.”

“Home?” Nick’s gaping and only when the word leaves his mouth Rafa grasps the weight of it.

The residence he lives in stopped being home some time ago. When he held the racket for the last time. When he immersed himself in bitterness and desolation. When Mery moved out, because this became his path alone and he couldn’t give her anything. He literally had nothing else outside tennis after they tried and tried to make this place home and the doctor said he can’t, he’s incapable from the medical point of view to do that. It hurt. Like a punch in the stomach. But it somehow brought bitter realisation, too.

He had nothing else to give, outside tennis. He was nothing outside it.

So this place stopped being home, when drenched in it, he almost buried people in his life alive in the cold ground where he hid himself, trying to forget, trying to numb himself to everything.

And now he brought the meaning to the name. And now his faith extended even to this: making his house home again?

“I mean, you can book a hotel room, but my,” he coughs, correcting himself, overwhelmed with the implications himself. “house is very close to the Academy and I guess, it’s mostly convenient for you to be staying with me,” he tries to sound very matter-of-factly and pragmatic, even though he revealed the true reason behind it. No matter how subconsciously. Or not. Not really. This was always at the core of it. To bring sun back to his house to make it a home.

_Carlos was asking him, utterly confused. “Interesting. None other guys you invited to the Academy stayed in your house? Why him?”_

_And Rafa answered, unquestionable. On a mission to mend. On a mission to heal. Himself. And them “Because this place was just that, a house. I want to remember what it meant as home.”_

_Carlos spurted his water during lunch they were having, knowing Rafael like the back of his hand and yet failing to grasp the meaning of this at all. “What the fuck happened in Paris, Rafa?” he could only manage._

_“I realised it’s time for acceptance, Carlos.”_

And now looking into Nick’s eyes, brown, soft, helpless and a little bit hounded, he knows exactly why he made that decision and how very conscious it was.

It’s him taking the responsibility for what he tamed.

“Uhm, okay?” Nick sounds unsure and hopeful, all at once. Wanting to fall for their old ways. Wanting to cling to this safety of known (because toxic, because wrong, because punishing?). But desperate to learn different, to move on from their bargaining to acceptance, too. His clothes look too big on him, he looks too tall, like he doesn’t fit into his own skin. Rafa thinks of the times when all he craved was to see him broken, pleading, denied, a projection of his own yearnings he tried to stifle with his cold vendettas.

He reaches with his hand now, to touch Nick’s forearm, to trail with his fingers to his wrist. A butterfly touch, asking for permission. Asking for a trust. Nick’s first instinct is to jolt under the foreign or under carefully manufactured (he used to do that, was gentle with him too, to lure him in, to pull him in and to trap him in this perpetual motion).

The road to acceptance will not happen over one day. Rafa knows all about careful, patient, well-planned and persistent, though.

And when Nick’s response then is letting him brush their hands in an almost hold of being together, Rafa keeps faith that they can get there. Eventually.

“Let’s go for that walk now,” he smiles, and it’s cheeky, guiding him by his fingers to follow to Nick chuckling his. “Very funny.”

And so maybe they’re going to be all right. In the end.

They leave Nick’s luggage in the luggage room and set off to face that new beginning, hands brushing, fingers catching, like thinking out loud over this what if of them being a couple, of them being together like that for a while now.

@

“You’’ll catch flies, Nick,” Rafa chuckles to his hand at Nick’s gaping expression and him repeatedly mouthing: _Oh shit_ , to himself in awe and giddiness of a little boy seeing Disneyland for the first time.

The thought strikes him. An idea. For the future. Maybe. They should absolutely visit Disneyland and it’s suddenly a pressing priority for some immediate time soon.

They’ve got to Rafa’s bike, parked on the outside of Palma and Nick’s fallen into a state of complete wonder since then.

“That’s honestly so dope!” he’s still so young and endearing and there’s a shudder of that protectiveness in Rafa now, that awakened when he saw him on the airport, in seemingly too big clothes and not yet armoured expression of someone not sure he belongs here.

“Would you opt for that walk, instead, then?” he teases. Nick’s face is still full of excitement but there’s also gleam in his eyes. The same gleam Nick would always have for him across the net, meeting all the challenges, daring Rafa to chase him. The same gleam Nick had for Rafa, across the table, in that pub, with intensions laying bare and open in a way his body was already singing for him.

“I don’t remember you being Mister Jokester that much, Raf?” Nick throws him a judging look, as he’s finally moving to touch it. It’s a Harley Davisdon model. Huge, impressive, beast. But sleek and graceful, too. Carlos always said it looks exactly like him on court, so on black paint they custom designed Rafa’s bull sign smudged with crimson red, Nick marks with his fingers now, a gesture of tribute but sensuality, too. Rafa clears his throat, making Nick look. Making Nick possibly see. “Jesus.” Is all Nick has to say, his voice hoarse, like he used it on sounds and sighs, the same ones he was making in bed with Rafa’s fingers buried deep inside his warmth.

“Some Aussies have terrible influence,” Rafa manages to say, as their eyes remain locked. Meaning passing beyond words. The connection, that’s carnal, and under skin and in their bones. The connection that will always bring them together from the edges of the world.

“Hmm, do they? Cos I remember you as very incorruptible. Stubborn, even. Like a bull,” Nick’s hand continues to travel down the edges of the machine, fingertips light as feathers and Nick is absolutely putting on a show, maintaining eye contact with Rafa all the time.

“Ox are stubborn, Nick. Not bulls,” and Rafa keeps his tone light, even if he’s a captive audience of this show and the pull between them feels like second skin to him.

“Are you a zoologist now?” snorted out.

“As much as you’re a linguist,” chuckled back and God. Rafa doesn’t remember feeling so light and at ease. He didn’t allow them to have this before and it’s so effortless. Familiarity. Playfulness. Like he’s known Nick his entire life. Because he does. God. He does.

“Smartass.”

“Brat.”

And now they are both laughing and the tightness inside Rafa’s chest is melting into something warm and pleasant. Like Chocolate Caliente spreading inside with the layer of rich, velvety sensation.

“So. I’m driving, obviously?” Nick shoots him a teasing smirk, settling down on the edge of the saddle and curling his finger at Rafa in a plea for the keys.

Rafa walks, like Nick’s pulling that red thread between them. He gets himself close, brushing Nick’s thighs as they part for him eagerly. An invitation. A temptation. Inevitable. Even though, Nick is not here for this. Even though Rafa wants to heal them. Show them both the other way. But Nick’s there, within his reach, biting his lip in pretended coyness, legs opening, pulling Rafa close, closer, with his calves.

And Rafa belongs there, in between, like a fitting piece of a whole, making them whole, like they were made for each other in bodies. With his arms leaning on the saddle, locking Nick in a trap or an embrace? Or keeping Nick in a shelter where he should be?

“Do you even know where you’re going, lindo?” It would be so easy to lean, bring them closer, pull on that bottom lip, have them kissing, like they should a long time ago.

“Somewhere, where I can get you alone, papi,” Nick’s hands get busy and he rests them sneakily on the small of Rafa’s back, moving lower, to grip on his ass with daring familiarity. To almost pull him closer.

God. They could. Like Rafa’s in his 20s. Like he’s just discovered the taste of salted skin under his tongue, quivering under his ministrations. He wants Nick like he’s just learning about himself. Like he’s never known himself, entirely. He wants Nick all the time and he needs to show him, let him know. But not before the healing.

But it’s something else, too. It’s Nick wired with his body, like he taught him with bounds and through denying him over and over again. It’s Nick, pliant and owned and his. From that defiant, proud, rebellious, giving himself with his entire body, to be used.

“To do what?” there’s guilt in him, but there’s rush of power too. One last time. He can’t help himself. Even if he’s reaching behind to take Nick’s palms into his own and put them back on the saddle, prolonging the contact, hand on hand. Intimate and close. Not like then. Controlling and punishing.

“Anything you want. Everything you want,” Nick arches, (clay in his hands, God, Rafa’s perched). Calves trapping Rafa close and giving him entire view of his long, honey skin neck to write their story on with mouth and teeth (he has his weapons, too, he tries to call the shots, too. Always. Always. Like on court). Rafa never did. Rafa marked him from the inside. Not where anyone could see to judge him. As they rightfully should.

And then Nick’s stomach rumbles loudly, breaking the moment, or not? Because Nick’s chuckling now, into Rafa’s chest, warm and cozy and fitting there and Rafa thinks about holding him close and kissing the top of his head where a mop of his thick, curly hair tickles his nose, the feeling of velvety serenity inside now deeper and broader than ever.

There can be soft. There can be hopeful. Not only aching. Not only despairing.

“Which loud and clear means lunch, si?” he says close to this hair, his mouth almost brushing the softness, (that softness he wants for them). He almost tattoos his smile there. Symbol of their new beginning.

“Shut up,” Nick says lightly.

“Are you talking to your stomach?” Rafa prompts and Nick nudges him playfully in response. And with an effort, Rafa’s pulling away (there’s time, they have time, he will still learn the softness of this hair under his mouth by heart and Nick will know it’s not a bargaining chip anymore), reaching behind the seat to hand Nick a helmet, suddenly stern focus.

“Spoilsport. What about wind in my hair? Where’s your sense of adventure and romanticism?” Nick pretends to be swooning, raising his voice in pompous emphasis.

“Patience, preciso. You didn’t see nothing, yet. We have two weeks, si?” Rafa can’t help himself, maybe after the whiff of that hair, the feel of its texture (the feel of hope). Maybe it’s this pull between them, like it’s been coming, them being together, effortlessly, playfully, like they were meant to be like this and now the gravity took over? “A helmet. Ahora.”

And Nick does put on a helmet, even if pouting defiantly (his lips full and pink and Rafa remembers, and Rafa’s not entirely free of that streak of heat now charging inside him, numbing dormant buzz of pain that never leaves him, along with guilt). Nick’s so pliant. Nick’s so eager to follow orders. Nick still thinks he’s here to negotiate attention.

And then, Nick asks, climbing the backseat, the image of long, bare legs straddling the leather hits Rafa with another wave of fever and guilt combined.

“Tell me, Rafa. Will your wife mind me casually hanging in your house, though?” Because, there’s always that fire of defiance burning in him. That’s why Rafa chose him, at all. To see this breaking in him. To see this extinguishing in him. It was perverse kind of satisfaction and justice.

Except Nick’s stronger than that. While being also soft and needy. Nick is lost on the stormy sea and needs shelter. And Rafa realised, along the way, that he wants to be this for him more, than he wants to drown him or break him. A collateral. Of his own fucked up medicine.

“You wanted to get me alone, tesoro. And that’s what you’re getting. It’s not too late to pull out, hmm?” Rafa joins him, putting his own helmet on and turning around to throw an assessing gaze at Nick.

This is him asking for Nick’s trust. Again. This is him hoping he knows it won’t be abused this time. This is him reassuring, not coaxing. This is him choosing healing not punishment. For both of them.

Nick nods. Cautious, though. Hey, it’s only the beginning. It’s the first chapter. A long way of restoration ahead of them. Then, he says, more firmly. “Vamos.” And that’s good title for it, is it?

*

Nick doesn’t touch him during the journey. He keeps his hands on the handlebar on the backseat and Rafa is very aware of it. Of this space between them. He himself created, after all. And Nick does not allow himself to cross it, because Rafa taught him he needs permission. He taught him he needs to earn it. Because Rafa taught him this is about punishment.

The chill inside him has nothing to do with the speed induced wind. Mallorca drowns in blossom of June. The heat is heavy and rich, like a layer of sleek lotion.

And it has everything to do with the noose he created for them both.

*

“Make yourself at home, Nick.”

Rafa guides him inside his residence and lets the words out with all the implications and rawness of the meaning.

His living room has been bare and cold, since Mery moved out and took her fashion projects, paper work, souvenirs from all their travels with her. Pin board with thousand of photos of his tennis, her support and their life has been taken down to the garage. He felt enough physical pain in his body to add this aching reminder. To see this constant distant echo of something unreachable. He could never be this person again. And he didn’t know how to be anything else.

He wonders if it gathered enough dust and are all these photos covered with thick layer of it. Like buried in the ground of the unsalvageable past.

There was not much human presence in his house. Until now.

The moment Nick steps in it feels like the room has grown more spacious, lighter and airy and Rafa thinks he can breathe that fresh, salty, ocean air inside.

“I’m going to come up with some remedy for that stomach situation of yours, si?” he winks at Nick, who’s scratching his head, abashed, hair a mess after taking off the helmet and his face beaming and eager. Rafa wonders, does his skin taste of the sun and the wind, now?

“Can I help?” Nick clears his throat, absolutely out of his element in the kitchen.

“I don’t know, amigo, can you?” Rafa teases, with eyebrow raised to Nick snorting apologetically.

“Not if we actually wanna eat stuff and not get sick I guess?”

“Don’t worry, there’s a rota. You’re cooking every second day.”

“Did you mean, we’re eating out then?” Nick’s wearing incredulous expression, as if allowing him into the kitchen is even a more disastrous move than forcing him into the gym for more than 2 hours.

“It can’t be that bad,” Rafa throws over his shoulder, heading for the kitchen island to set the things for the lunch ready.

“You wanna bet, Raf?” Nick starts slowly wondering around the living room, examining walls, shelves and corners, Rafa assumes, for the signs of life here, togetherness, familiarity or maybe tennis. He won’t be finding any.

“Sure. If you fail at dinner tomorrow, we’re spending the entire afternoon at the gym,” Rafa speaks to the fridge, taking out the saucepan with yesterday’s portion of pisto.

“Hey, isn’t this like cheating?” Nick points at ready-made meal with an exaggerated offense, but it makes him scrunch and pout with so much disarming charm, Rafa can practically feel the warmth spreading inside the whole place. Scattering away the ghosts, the chills, the haunting echoes.

“I’ve made it, Nicholas. So, no. It’s not cheating,” Rafa imitates judging tone.

“Nicholas?” Nick snorts around his own name but then, tearing himself away from the crockery set with corrida paintings, his mother gave them for a wedding. The house was mostly bare, but it’s impossible to weed out the presence of someone shaping your entire life for so long with the roots, entirely. And he wouldn’t want that. And she wouldn’t want that. Mery moving out was never about tearing out pages. It was about turning a new leaf.

Rafa looks at him from over the cooker he’s setting on. Nick’s hand trails the surface of the dresser with all the family china collection. The gesture is deliberate. Seducing. Like him earning his rights for more. “Should I call you _papi_ then?” he hums, voice hoarse, eyelids heavy, fingers busy with the wood. He is offering himself. And Rafa remembers and Rafa wants to know if his skin does taste of wind and sun and Rafa wants to go to him. Wants to push him against the furniture (maybe make the porcelain inside break, crash, like the echoes of the past will disperse into nothing with Nick’s moans around Rafa’s name). Wants to take him, like he denied himself, like he denied Nick. He wants to claim and regain control. And see him pliant and eager.

But this is not about control. This is not about claiming. This is about healing. And Nick must understand this, too.

Rafa takes a deep breath and speaks, with calm and focus. “Go and sneak for things, Nick.”

“Uhm, okay,” Nick’s whole posture slumps and he sounds disappointed. Because he doesn’t understand. Because he still thinks it’s about rejection, not making amends. As if the wounds Rafa marked him with are memories to cherish, rather than scars to apologise for.

Rafa wants to call for him, explain, make him see, but there is no shortcut for them and Nick has trotted deep into the house now, away from the truths and confrontations.

*

He finds him in Mery’s study. Symbolic. Already filling up these empty, cold spaces with his presence. Right where he should. Right where the mending is needed.

It’s a small, cosy room downstairs, where she would come to handle all the paper work from Academy she had to take with herself back home. And it was usually a lot and he wouldn’t be able to do this without her, and her smart mind, and her organization skills and her dedication to this life they were building, sharing, having together. And she can still have parts of it. But he no longer does. And it was one of the cracks on the pillars they raised together, his anger and his envy and his grief bleeding onto her. The cracks that grew and made the pillars of them crumble. Not to dust. No. She was his best friend and his business partner, still, still. But there was no rebuilding the structure to the glory it used to be.

There were photos here before, too. Of the tour. Of their holidays, together (no matter how rare those were, because he could never be outside tennis for too long). Now, there’s an empty desk, filling cabinets with old papers they never had time to arrange and a sofa on which Nick is now snoring softly, curled up around Beijing mascot from ages before, from that final of theirs (they had so few, they didn’t have enough, and they never will again).

How did he find it? There’s nothing left of tennis in this house. It’s been exorcised of tennis completely. Maybe they are so wired, there’s part in Nick awakening Rafa Nadal from court, bringing him back to life and making him yearn, wanting him to chase, to charge, to roam the arena with only Nick capable of facing the beast. With only Nick desperate enough or brave enough or both to do so.

Rafa gets inside the room and walks towards the sofa. Nick’s too long and too tall for it, his legs are bend and coiled, and he’s clutching the teddy to his chest like grounding himself. His chest moves evenly under soft snoring breaths. His face is peaceful and serene. He looks so young, smaller and lanky, not a professional athlete struggling his battle for consistency every day, not that desperate, pliant, needy lover arching and bending under Rafa’s hands for more. But a boy, still a boy escaping to his kingdom of forever childhood, with his mama’s cooking and soft fur of dogs to pet, to shelter him and loving endearments promising that _it’s going to be all right, baby_.

It makes Rafa ache inside. It moves him. And chokes him with guilt, too. Nick has his heart right in the open, always, always, even if it means ugly, angry and sulking, even it if means vulgar, obscene and challenging. But even if it means vulnerable and soft and childlike, too. And Rafa took the advantage of it. This boy, so needy, so raw with it, he was willing to give his all to mend Rafa.

Rafa sits on the edge of it, gently, not to disturb Nick. Jetlag was never something they learned to overcome. Even if it was such an inseparable part of the tour, it exhausted the body and made the separation from home gaping with impatience, frustrations and longing. That’s what it was for Nick. Rafa lived and breathed tennis and court was always his home. With his family filling up that space for him. So for him, it might have been a little bit easier. But Nick, with his kingdom of childhood at the end of the world. But Nick, with his unguarded heart bleeding out everything without filter. But Nick, a boy lost in the crowd, acting tough but unable to run away from fear. It wasn’t easy. It never was.

Rafa touches his bare shoulder. He’s so warm and soft like Mallorca sand Rafa vaguely remembers from morning swims in the past, before tennis routine consumed his entire life and there was never time for anything else (huh, and they expect him to become anew, from that building material from _then_ , when _then_ is some obscure memory of someone else, someone by the name of Rafael Nadal Parera. Someone he doesn’t know.) He wants to touch his face, clean-shaven, young, so young. He wants to caress it, like he’s allowed, like he didn’t leave marks on him before. To shelter. To protect. To make amends. He keeps his palm on Nick’s shoulder though, to move him gently and whisper. “Food’s ready,” as if knowing this is a trigger phrase Nick will respond to at all times, instantly.

And so he does.

His eyelids flutter and he’s humming, slowly coming round, not entirely aware of the surroundings yet. So maybe that’s why, with brain cocooned in last remnants of sleep, he’s nuzzling Rafa’s hand, that’s still petting his shoulder. Rafa can sense his mouth there, smiling lazily, smiling with this morning after serenity, of being exactly where he wants, where he’s always wanted to be. “Hmmm, so it’s gonna be real difficult not to call you _papi_ , when you take such good care of me,” Rafa ridiculously thinks his voice sounds like a first sip of hot chocolate does feel on your tongue. His hand moves on its own accord, cradling Nick’s cheek, those lips continue to mouth sweet nothings to it.

“Well, you _are_ a little baby. You sleep and you eat, and repeat, si?” with his other hand he clutches the edge of the sofa, refusing to weave it into Nick’s thick, curly strands of hair made to be stroked, made to be petted, made to be pulled. Like he desperately wants to. 

“Ha, ha. But if it means I’m _your_ baby then I can live with that,” Nick’s leaving open-mouthed kisses on the inside of Rafa’s palm, then on Rafa’s wrist, his forearm and then he’s looking up, his face heated, hooded eyes gleaming with fever and that mouth, parted and waiting and for the taking.

The pang of desire runs through Rafa’s body, again, overlaying any sensation of pain that’s engraved on the inside of his skin by this point. Like he wants something, physically, in his bones, for the first time in his life. There was passion and dedication for tennis, then there was trust, affection and familiarity with Mery. And now, he thinks, he’s filled with something new, something he never had before. Just for Nick. He used to think it’s frustration and anger, over Nick’s unpredictability, over Nick always being a challenge that eludes him. Then, he thought it’s irritation with his attitude and dares. But it was none of these things. Or all of them masquerading as wanting him, wanting him so much Rafa never understood the feeling, Rafa discarded it as something foreign and bizarre and irritable. 

“Nick,” he sounds weak. There is no conviction. To do what? To stop them? To keep them going? Going back to old ways. Where he models a leash for them from Nick’s pliancy and his own grief?

“What? This sofa is too small, granted. But you can have me on the desk, Raf, hmm?” he’s lifting himself up now, bringing himself close, so close, with Rafa’s hand digging into his forearm now, in an attempt of refusal or puling him closer, or somewhere in between. Nick purrs to his mouth, hands busy, going to the hem of Rafa’s shirt, lips catching the edge of his jaw. The teddy falls to the ground (because Nick is not a boy in his kingdom of childhood, Nick is a grown man, beautiful and sexy and broken, with all his pieces fitting into chunks of Rafa’s sanity , making it effortless, making it sinfully easy to just give in). Nick’s hands slip under Rafa’s shirt now, and he is allowing him, he is allowing them, meeting nuzzles of Nick’s mouth, in almost kisses, in carnal what ifs. “Don’t you want that, Rafa? Don’t you want to have me on that desk? Just have me?” the words taste like pleading on Rafa’s mouth in warm breaths Nick’s almost kissing him with.

Like he asks: _have me. Please._

“I do. I do want you. Nick. God,” he takes Nick’s busy hands into his own and stops him though, like stopping them from falling into the abyss of inevitable and damning.

Even if it costs him a lot. Even if he wants this. Wants to take Nick’s eagerness. Wants to sink into his heat, his desire and drown them in it. Now, it’s his turn, to mouth to Nick’s hands, he holds palms up and words the confession in warm breaths there. “I want you. Badly. But it’s for all the wrong reasons, Nick. I used you. To make myself feel better.”

Nick’s restless and moving and leaning forward and whispering to his ear, hands laced together as he pulls them behind himself to make Rafa hold him, hold him close. Closer. “I wanted you to use me. I want you to use me, now. Properly, you know,” he adds with a hint of a tongue and his teeth on Rafa’s earlobe. “with your cock.” 

His voice is like chocolate melting on Rafa’s tongue. God. Only the years of hardening his will make him stop from gathering this eager body, to have it all over himself, to have, have, have. Just have. “No, Nick. You don’t deserve this. We both don’t deserve this. We deserve more and better,” the words sound muffled as he’s saying them to the top of Nick’s hair, who’s nuzzling his cheek, nuzzling his neck, inhaling his skin and learning it by heart.

“Are you saying you want to protect my virtue, Rafael?” Nick’s now peering into Rafa’s face with a glint of a mischief that makes him look so boyish and young and God, Rafa didn’t realise, Rafa didn’t know before, but under thick layers of desire there’s protectiveness and affection for this boy. No. For this man. That ultimately drives his actions. That made him want to invite him here. To steal his sun, but to guide him. But to shelter him. But to have him shine for the entire world to see. (Nick’s greatness and Rafa’s legacy).

“The food’s getting cold,” Rafa tries to unwrap himself from Nick’s iron grip, to get them back on track. But Nick is on the mission, apparently no longer hungry for food that much.

“Does it mean, I’m gonna be your princesa? Should I wear a low cut dress and a lace panties for you, then?” Nick continues to purr his temptations to every inch of skin available on Rafa’s neck and his shoulders and behind his ear. The way he can juggle innocence with sensuality leaves Rafa intoxicated, something he used to take for frustration with a disrespectful, sulking brat, now is this overwhelming feeling of pull and want. “I’m thinking, red, lace panties for the bull, hmm? Would you fuck me then, Rafa?” Nick now shapes the words with his lips practically on Rafa’s lips. And there’s a ripple of almost violent desire in Rafa, that dominates over everything, the pain of his joints and the ache to make amends. And he almost growls, berating himself for not making this vision a reality before, when he was blind and selfish, gorging on Nick’s eagerness, abusing it to feel control. When he allowed himself to take and hurt and take again. And so, only by mastering the ability to play under pressure for so many years and managing to win the tie breaks or come back from break points Rafa is still able to resist. Even though the images swirl in his head (he’s a beast of vicious appetite and he needs to feast, he leaves marks on Nick’s hips with his fingers like claws, pulling him violently close, from behind, to bite on skin, to bite on the lacy string of the panties, red, red, red, like blood pumping inside his veins, going straight to his hard cock, making his stomach clench in primal hunger, to get to skin, to eat, to have, and he’s pulling them down, with his greedy mouth, teeth grazing Nick’s hipbones, making him bend for Rafa, making him give in to him entirely, with wrecked sobs he hears through the skin he laps and bites and licks on).

Even though he won’t be able to stop thinking about this now. 

“Yes. I would. I would fuck you, Nick,” his voice shakes. He wants to give in. He wants to take what Nick’s offering. He wants to take everything. He wants for Nick, to know. This want between them. This fever. This craze. Is mutual and shared. There’s a ghost of his lips on Nick’s forehead. Gentle and excusing and saying they deserve to be more and better than this. “But now, we eat.” And he raises himself up, letting the warmth and pliancy of Nick slip in between his fingers, with an overwhelming feeling of regret. But this is good. This is healing. This is acceptance.

He’s marching in the direction of the door, with all his commanding on-court disposition Carlos often tells him never really leaves him. Whenever he enters the dining room in the house they now share with Mery for Sunday dinners or when he would go to Academy to teach, to step on court, for children to swarm him with joy and he would still give orders and keep discipline, without compromising an ounce of their adoration in the process (because he doesn’t do any of that now). Even when he struts down the aisle with sweets in the supermarket, determined to treat himself off-season (never breaking the routine, never embracing the fact that it’s now always an off-season for him).

Nick groans and whines and mumbles a litany of holy names and curses, intertwined. But he does follow, in the end (that’s why Rafa has faith in them, because Nick trusts and Nick listens and Nick can be guided, not with sex, not through that leash of punishment). And Rafa’s glad, not only because of this ray of hope for deliverance for them.

He’s glad, because he’s not entirely sure how long his resistance would last under the assault of Nick’s seduction.

*

Nick’s eating with the same favour he does everything else. There are no limitations on him. No filters. His heart is in his sleeve. Like he never really grew up. Like he didn’t let himself to. He’s making sounds of appreciation and slurps on the content on his spoon enthusiastically and Rafa swells on the inside. This was always their family dinner. There was chatter, clunking of the utensils over shouts of joys or roars of harmless arguments. And then there were smacks and slurps and munches of approval.

Rafa tells Nick. He talks about times when this place was home. Talks about loving to cook, cooking with his sisters, for a dozen of his cousins always visiting their family home. Filling up this space with presence, love, colours and smells. And he talks learning to bake and always being the main cakes and pies provider for Christmas.

Even if later on there was never time to go back to these old ways. Because his tennis routine took over everything. And Rafa Nadal living and breathing tennis was born.

“So,” Nick is drawing patterns with his fingers on the counter they eat on, chewing on the vegetables from his lunch and avoiding Rafa’s gaze. Still continuing. Hesitant but too curious not to. “Where is everyone?”

Uhm. This.

Oozing emptiness of this place, still noticeable and full of shape inside this house that used to be home. Rafa wonders if Nick can feel it on his skin. The cold and hostility of it. Every corner gaping with the memory removed or let go. A wall empty, with echo of pictures, a closet with an entire side of clothes packed and taken away, a shelf with traces of a bottle of perfume that used to stand there, jewelry box removed. Entire rooms storing their secrets and memories behind closed doors.

Nick asks and he isn’t daring. So, it’s not only about Mery. It’s about this disturbing state of isolation Rafa wrapped himself in, most probably.

Rafa could say a lot of things.

_They moved on._

_They have their own lives._

_They didn’t want to be buried with me._

_We’re still friends but I don’t know how to be a family with them anymore._

All of them would be true. And yet what he says, instead, exposes him even more.

“You’re here, no?” beckoning Nick to look at him, with his hand sneaking closer to Nick’s, his fingers brushing gently against his. Like it means so much more. The confession. Like it’s him loudly declaring the purpose of Nick being here. Or maybe even the meaning of Nick’s presence in his life at all.

_After mourning comes acceptance._

_With you._

“I am,” a question mingled with desperate confirmation. Rafa’s little finger pets the edge of Nick’s palm. Offering reassurance. Asking for absolution. Rafa’s touching him, because there’s want at the core of it all. But he’s gentle and apologetic because it’s no longer about deliverance in punishment.

_It’s not your body that is my medicine. But you._

Nick reciprocates his gaze. It’s haunted and aching. For a flash of a moment. Like he’s dizzy. Like he was denied too many times to trust that much. He breaks contact between them and goes back to devouring the content of his plate.

And after a while he chases away the intensity of the connection with seemingly careless chatter.

“Better tell me, bro, is there something you can’t actually do?” he asks, gulping on his orange juice a little bit too hastily.

“Hmm, I don’t think I can dance to hip hop,” Rafa raises his eyebrow, waiting for an outbreak of offence. Willing to play along. To the light tone. To the pretences. Or precautions.

And sure the outbreak comes fast enough and spectacularly enough with Nick almost spurting large portion of pisto all over the kitchen counter.

“What the fuck, dude?”

“Si. En falta,” Rafa casually lift his arms in a gesture of admittance and goes back to sipping on his green tea innocently, enjoying the moment of outrage and letting Nick know with a small, affectionate smirk on his lips.

“You shouldn’t have said that, Raf. You will so be taught.”

“I will?” he lifts the corner of his lips now, intrigued with the challenge. And then doesn’t stop himself on time to add. “I will be taught as much as you can be taught bachata, Nick.” Knowing Nick’s competitive edge. Maybe. No. Surely provoking it.

“Is that a bet, then?” sure enough, Nick’s face is all curiosity and determination.

“Do you even know what bachata is, Nick?” Rafa chuckles, inducing pout of defiance. The swelling inside him grows warmer. In affection. But in anticipation, too.

“I know it’s something worth seeing you dance hip hop for.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

Now, it’s Nick who sets his hand on Rafa’s palm on the counter, sealing the bet, but lingering, his fingers stroking his calloused knuckles, there’s adoring gentleness to the gesture. Like in the end they can’t stop touching each other. Like in the end the pull of bodies is stronger than anything else. Not a leash anymore, though. But a thread. A red thread.

Rafa welcomes the touch. His eyes flutter like he forgot what it means, how it feels.

Mery used to do that. When they ate these few breakfasts together, because he was home, because they were not in a rush in a hotel room, him, already gone training, her taking a shower. Mery used to do that. But there was regret on her face. Like his hands were something sharp, treacherous, too. Stealing him away from her. Stealing him away from himself. Weapons of destructions not instruments of art. The rough surface of them hurting her, because hurting him.

Nick’s touch is reverent. Before it turns sensual, there’s element of worship. Like he told him before. Tennis goes hand in hand with want for him. Rafa is both a monument of history and a body to crave after.

“You seem to be going all in, Mister Kyrgios,” Rafa smiles, not breaking the connection. It’s difficult. To not feel him on his skin. Once you tried. Once you tasted.

“Going all in? Yeah, that’s me. All in or nothing at all, yeah? But I really do like the sound of it in your mouth, Raf,” his eyes are heavy-lidded when he teases with words, with a scratch of his nail reaching Rafa’s forearm.

“One track mind,” Rafa grunts but with affection. “I meant our bets. You’re nothing but bets, are you?” and unwillingly, but he breaks the contact, to walk around the island, take Nick’s plate and lean closer to murmur. “You’re cooking tomorrow, remember?” and take their dishes into the dishwasher.

Nick doesn’t try to stop him, or bring him closer, but the way he follows it up with seemingly off-hand comment, “Hmm, I’m more interested in the results of that other bet we have, Raf,” sounds heavy in his mouth, stirring flashes of images of teeth grazing dark honey skin to rip the red lacy layers and feast.

*

The racket looks sleek and light in Nick’s hands. Like he’s been made to hold it, to wield it. Like it belongs to his body even if he tries to tear it away, to break it into pieces so often. Rafa tries to feign casual interest, but he’s probably staring.

They are in the Academy. In Rafa’s office, that’s now Mery’s workplace, because he rarely comes here anymore. Not for the court. Surely not for paper work. Not even for the children.

It’s not only about Nick feeling the strings, tapping his fingers against the surface, like he actually missed it, like being separate with it does influence him (making him miss tennis? Making him miss being one with tennis?). The envy or longing or both that flares up in Rafa burns him. Hurts him. Tastes like something vile and bitter and difficult to swallow. His hands might be shaking , too.

He hasn’t played for a long time, now. Avoiding any chance to be anywhere else in the Academy, but inside the office if he absolutely must, just away from the court. As far away as possible. His own court stays abandoned, like a dystopian piece of no longer existing reality. Gruesome ruins of a disappearing past. Dust on the graves. His body itches. Muscle memory in him like an electric current wanting him to take few strides, to grab the handle, along with Nick, to feel it respond to his commands like melted with skin, like his entire physique comes to life in a whole different way with racket in his hand.

“How long since you played?” Nick notices. He’s asking the forbidden question, fingers nervously running around the frame, hunched into himself in insecurity whether he can or shouldn’t dare.

Rafa feels the shimmer of anger, overlaying that horrible envy consuming him now. He remembers Nick’s wrist bound tightly with the strings, he wonders how long the marks remained. He remembers him bent for Rafa, rocking on his fingers, chasing orgasm. He remembers about wanting to use stringed racket on him. To punish him for having tennis. To teach him to realize and appreciate this.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not here for this. I’m never here for this, ” he grunts the answer. Definite. Unquestionable.

But Nick persists. Like he always does. Nick can be as relentless as Rafa back in the days. On court. The very essence of perseverance.

“Don’t you wanna try, Raf? We have a draw to settle, yeah?” Nick gets himself closer, a racket in his hand, as if he’s planning to hand it to Rafa. An instrument of getting things even. One way or another. “I think about what a stringed racket feels like on naked skin every night, Raf,” and now he’s close and provoking. And Rafa swallows a growled “come here” to that. Chokes on the words, thick and needy. Won’t let them come out. 

“Why do you think _you’re_ here, Nick?” is what comes out instead. He brought him to the Academy, to show him around, to let him meet the kids, to remind them, or himself, too, that this is the reason. It’s about healing. It’s about fixing. It’s about tennis. Until they got to Rafa’s office and Nick started to open the luggage with his equipment and Rafa was drowning in the regrets and memories and growing frustration.

And so he realizes, hands clammy, wanting to clutch on the handle, wanting to grip warm skin and mark it in revenge, wanting to claim payment for the injustice of the world, that he’s not ready to face anything tennis. And he’s nowhere near an acceptance stage. Still grieving. In bleeding out anger.

“I’m here to do anything you want, Rafa. Anything you want to me or with me. Or preferably both,” he’s now touching Rafa’s chest with a racket butt cap, the center of his chest and downwards. Slowly. But with purpose.

“This is Mery’s office now,” he draws the line, as if it changes anything. As if it makes them any more clear where they stand.

“So?” Nick purrs, with a dare in his gleaming eyes. The butt drawing patterns on Rafa’s abdomen, almost on his cock. He thinks he’s going to snarl and breathe out fumes through his nostrils. And the words that follow almost make him chase the red cape. “She can watch.”

He could grab Nick by his nape, turn him around, push him onto Mery’s desk and bend him over. And have him there, angrily and violently and raw, fuck into him from behind like he’s using him to find blind comfort (or rather oblivion) and have him spill all over the surface, where she works. In this cursed place where everything reminds him about what he can’t do. What he can’t have. As if it can bring release. For any of them. As if it can be an answer. This perverse revenge. This fever. God. He wants to. The cap is now stroking him to half hardness as he refuses to move or let Nick know (maybe himself too) how he’s snarling inside for it to happen.

“Stop,” Rafa manages to state, authoritative as ever. Referring to both, Nick’s teasing, but maybe more, his words. Disrespecting Mery. Or rather dragging her into their mess. Into their clearing game. Into their grief.

Nick doesn’t. He bites on his bottom lip, focused or hungry, or both, the move of the racket unhurried but persistent when he murmurs. Or pleads. “Make me.”

Rafa doesn’t chase the red cape, even if his skin shivers to. His muscles, too. Even if it would be so easy to sink in this willingness. To wrap them in the oblivion.

He clasps the handle (God, it almost hurts, makes air in his lung burn him, like he’s underwater, like he can’t breathe under the wave of memories) and puts the racket away, with a growl stuck in his throat. For tennis (to have it) or for Nick (to punish him for not being able to).

“You’re not here for sex, Nick. It’s not about sex,” he sounds tired. He is. He’s been deluding himself they can be more than that.

“I know it isn’t. You don’t even fuck me, Rafa. Even though I practically beg for your cock. Jesus. Like, how fucked up that is?” Nick starts pacing, hands clenched, body taunt.

“Si. It is. And this is what I talk about. You’re not here for this. Stop using sex as an excuse to deserve to be here.”

Nick pauses and looks at him with disbelief and mockery, but there’s hurt flashing in his eyes, too. “Me? That’s fucking rich. It’s not me. It’s you. I just want you. Plain and simple. It’s not an excuse. I fucking want you, Rafa,” and he’s now facing him close, furnace of emotions, warm, willing, his for the taking. “And you don’t even go all the way in with your game. You. The greatest of all time. You can’t even admit it out loud, that I am here because you use sex as an excuse for your fucking mess,” feeling him so close, growling the words, panting with heat, is like facing him across the net back then, unpredictable, turmoil of emotions, eye of the storm and Rafa never felt more alive. Never felt more ready to take on the challenge. Nick is stripping him of pretences now. Exposing him. His eyes, feverish and honest and blunt. And from beneath the layers of aching joints and bleeding grief he pulls out the whole palette of feelings Rafa thought he had forgotten about.

“Always the same. Always the same. You provoke. You rattle. You want to be taught. You need to be taught,” there’s no touching but the energy between them is palpable.

“Yeah. That’s what I need, Raf. Teach me. Teach me, good,” Nick persists. Of course he does. He’s stubborn rather than resilient, but ultimately it’s there, in him, to be moulded, to be worked on. Which Rafa intends to do. But with healing. But eventually with tennis.

“I will. This is why we’re here. You’re meeting the kids,” but Rafa’s been always unbreakable. He is made of steel. Hardened by the losses and by this grief in him. And he never chooses easy options. “In about…”

There’s a knock on the door in this very moment and Mery’s head pops in in the view, asking in Spanish. “Have you finished your pep talk? The kids are ready.”

“I have. We’re ready,” Rafa replies, even though he only means Nick (hopes for him to be). He’s not showing up at the kids’ court. He’s not touching the equipment. He’s not risking another bleed out of anger and grief. “Pack your bag, Nick. The kids are waiting for their idol to show them some tricks,” he turns to Nick and nudges him with his finger in the direction of the door, indisputable and nonnegotiable. As far from these charged moments they continue to share as he can.

“Their idol? What the fuck, Raf? I mean, it’s Rafa’s Academy. There’s only one idol for them here, is there?” Nick’s dragging his feet, picking up his bag, throwing it over the shoulder, without conviction, insecure? Frustrated? Scared? All of the above. Just like he always was on court, hiding beneath fractious attitude, all that mouthing back, big words covering up small whimpers. He’s moving, though, he’s following the instructions. He’s sharing Rafa’s hope, too, maybe. So maybe they can be saved, even if Nick’s pliancy to Rafa’s will continues to make him feel electric with intoxicating amount of power.

He used to train kids. He used to train young tennis players, too. But he never had such restless creature of whims yielding to him. And it’s a rush. It makes him want to abuse this power. (Spill the anger, release the envy).

They are still not ready. He is not.

“Nonsense. You’re a hot shot among the youngsters now. The Prince of Clay, si?” there is no bitterness in a way he says it. Nick has always been amazing with kids. Nick has always inspired kids to go against the tide, to challenge the order, to ultimately follow the impossible. Rafa would sometimes think to himself how it would be to have him at the Academy. To have him teach the kids. Show the kids. The other way. His colours, imagination, daring creativity. This entire place carved for Nick in Rafa’s life. In their life.

Ridiculous. This is not what they are. They are in their getting even game. Rafa makes him pine. Nick wins at tennis. Fucked up balance. Away from acceptance. But a known, familiar ground, they know the steps by heart now.

“I stopped listening after you said I’m hot,” Nick purrs close to him, with Rafa’s hand somehow landing on the small of his back, leading him towards the doors, where Mery’s waiting with a polite smile. Nick’s denying the fact he can be tennis icon. Nick’s denying the fact anyone can ever become Rafa’s legacy. Rafa’s hand lingers, soft and grateful and maybe even affectionate.

“Go, hot shot, do your magic,” he nods at Mery, practically handing her Nick. It should be messy or awkward or wrong. But it’s not. Mery knows him. Mery trusts him. Mery doesn’t live with him, doesn’t share his life anymore. This part of it definitely not.

Mery’s now a business partner, introducing a new employee to their working environment.

That’s what they should be. That’s how the balance and acceptance should work.

Jesus. They are fucked up. They are unsalvageable.

@

He feels like he’s suffocating. He should leave this place. So many memories, drowning him in waves. The pain inside his bones sharpens, like awakened more to life at the surrounding. Rafa thinks he can hear the sound of the ball against the clay surface of the courts, when he’s trapped inside this office, filled with echoes of ancient yesterday. He thinks it multiplies inside his head, making him go deaf, making him breathe hard, his heart hammering like after 5sets of a slam match. Like he can barely stand on his own. Like he’s about to collapse.

“Hey, did you have your shot today, Raf?” Mery’s there, supporting him, helping him sit on the chair. Like he blacked out for a moment there. Like he slipped into that oblivion of regrets and scorching longings that hurt more than his ruined joints do.

“It’s nothing. It’s just. I shouldn’t be here at all,” he keeps a hold of her hand, saying silent _thank yous_ , maybe clinging to her grounding him in here and now.

Like she used to. So often. When he woke up from nightmares, no. Dreams. Of the times when he could, when he was capable of. Times when he was great Rafa Nadal, with sweat dripping of his body when he’s doing his divine labour. She would ground him, keep him whole, when he shook in the aftermath fever of an almost crack addict going through withdrawal symptoms of no longer having tennis in his veins. And desperately needing to. She ground him when he went through his treatment, weak and aching, stumbling, not walking, incapable of simple physical efforts at the beginning. He became bitter, angry man, letting it out on her, on all of them, keeping them hostage to his pain. Like he did Nick, later on. But Mery stayed for a long time and held his hand even if he tried to drown her with himself.

“He’s amazing out there. The kids adore him, just like you said. Even though he doesn’t speak a word in Spanish and they only know some comic book lines and pop songs lyrics,” she stays close by, leaning against the desk, letting him draw strength from her. Letting him come round, with reminding himself how to breathe. He does. Slowly but eventually he does. Like emerging from underwater after being there too long.

“It’s not about words. It’s about tennis. He speaks to them with tennis. With his presence on court. He can be loud with words, still not many people understand him. But with tennis, he makes everyone stop and stare and know and see. See him for who he really is,” Rafa’s voice sounds hoarse, like he’s been coughing on too much water (or that wave of _never agains_ and _used tos_ ). He lets go of Mery’s hand by now, keeping his face hidden in his palms. Sweating out the fears, the aches. Clinging to the image of Nick on court, remembering it vividly. This is what grounds him, now. This is what pushes him over the edge, too.

“And who he really is, Rafa?” Mery asks, never really understanding this strange obsession between them. She would say, how Rafa had many rivals over the years and she would wonder out loud what made this one different, special, so driving them both?

“He’s a disaster. A force of nature. Destructive, awe-striking. He’s magical. He’s as bright as a star on the night’s sky,” he says after a beat. And he doesn’t stop speaking. It pours out of him. Raw and open. There’s ache inside him that follows. After the last time he saw Nick’s on court. On the opposite side of the net. After he felt that thrill of taking on his challenge, of chasing his dare, of diving head first into this tornado.

He misses tennis. Always. It never goes away. It never gets smaller. Numbed. Distant. But maybe now he misses tennis with Nick, just as much.

“And you want to punish him for it, and you want to escape from admiring it in him?” Mery touches his head, strokes his hair, like an anchor or a blessing or maybe neither. Because right now it’s his curse. Chains and destruction. He lifts his head up, looks at her, overwhelmed by her wisdom, by her empathy, by her selfless love and he takes her hand in his and kisses it in worship of it all. “Don’t you want to see him?” she continues, now cradling his stubble-covered cheek. He seeks it, the touch, a shelter and known. Dispersing all the anxiety and physical pain in him, even if for few moments.

“Not yet. Not just yet, Mery,” he confesses with his mouth to her palm. Reverent.

“You’re not backing out of the promise, Raf. You’re still training my child. You do realize that?” she reminds him and it doesn’t come with a jolt of bitterness or envy.

He doesn’t resent her for having a family without him. He doesn’t want to punish her. Steal it away from her, or get even. Like he does with Nick.

Maybe because tennis has always been first, taking over, encompassing his life and overshadowing everything else. So losing it had to mean breaking him.

*

Nick is sleeping in the room upstairs they were planning to make into a nursery. Before hope for that was chipped away from them bit by bit. And before it crumbled into ashes along with everything else.

Rafa knows it’s fucked up. But then, he thinks about the way Nick fills up this empty, hollow space this place has become over the years. How he’s leaving his mark everywhere here, of his vivid light, his colours, his unparalleled presence (like he did back in that hotel room, crumbs of him, crumbs of Rafa claiming him, like dots to connect on the map to guide him home, that true home he buried underneath the skeletons of longings after the impossible).

He does, what Rafa thought a child was supposed to do. Teaching him the meaning of life outside tennis. Showing him the way beyond it, to a man, not a tennis player.

*

There are good days and Rafa believes they are healing. He is healing. He really sees that path and knows how to walk it, straight to the solution. Straight to salvation.

When Nick comes back from the Academy, buzzing with positive energy, chatting away, spilling praises and hopes for the kids, absolutely involved in, dedicated even to what they are promising to become, how the future of tennis is here and there.

“You don’t tell them to play computer games or do literally anything else, because tennis mostly sucks?” Rafa wiping his hair with a towel after finishing his afternoon exercises routine and having a shower to Nick casually sprawled on the sofa in the living room like he’s been living here his entire life and feels at home.

Rafa had to get used to this, too. Nick’s presence often feels like a tornado. He is the force of nature, on court and off court. He leaves his hoodies wherever, later on, sulking without them, like he’s lost his safety blanket. “Raf, have you seen my Celtics hoodie?”

Rafa chuckles by now, “Which one?” treating Nick’s messiness and his almost child-like distraction as an element of their daily routine by then.

God. _Their?_ Since when this has become a thing?

“Ha ha,” Nick smirks, maybe only a little bit abashed over getting caught with his worst habits. Again.

“One is surprisingly in the garage, I saw another one on the porch, outside the house. But I’m thinking there might be more,” he’s wearing a small, affectionate smile, while working on a dishwasher after dinner.

“I’m so keeping them in one room from now and also I’m so washing them,” Nick throws on the way out with a wave of a hand that may be him making a promise or may be him saying thank you.

“Uhm, I’ve heard that before,” Rafa snorts to himself, over Nick’s tendency to take out all his clothes at once, instead of doing the laundry and then leaving half of his wardrobe outside its destined place.

Oh. So now he’s learned Nick’s little quirks by heart, has he?

Rafa always knows he’s in the house. He’s wrapped up in sounds and whole palette of colours. Talking to himself, having entire discussions, full of gestures and voice modulation. There’s music sipping through from his room or in the living room from the sound system Mery always used, to set the mood for dinners, or family parties or just rare evenings they spent together. It’s stayed untouched since she left this place, Rafa trapped in the haunting noise of silence, that never was this again, silence of steel focus during matches that filled him up utterly to the brink to make him stomp to victory undeterred. Now, his silence was thick with shimmers, voices, white noise from the past and he didn’t remember any enjoyment of music.

Until Nick. At first Nick’s music broke through Rafa’s routine with discomfort and confusion, but the way Nick carried it, always humming something to himself, music playing from the speakers he always kept with himself, music coming straight from the very core of him, like they are one, it settled in, organic, inseparable. Again. A part of _their_ routine.

“Very funny, mister jokester,” Nick is throwing up an apple he’s taken from the fruit basket on the table in the living room, constantly in need to temper with things, to move, that energy in him whirling on and on.

“What? I seem to remember you repeating this mantra, wearing it on your Tshirts and on your forehead. I’ve always thought you have a tattoo with it,” Rafa squats on the backrest of the sofa, wet towel now on his shoulders.

“I really have a terrible influence on you, Raf. You’re nothing but cheesy sarcasm all of a sudden,” Nick is shaking his head in amusement.

“So now you know what people feel trying to have a conversation with you,” Rafa can’t help but reaches his hand wanting to pet Nick’s thick, messy hair in a teasing manner, what he ends up doing is touching his cheek, tenderness underlying, apologetic and familiar. Nick looks up, his eyes shining with hope, with need. God. He’s an open book. Child-like in this way, too. His heart is right there for the taking and Rafa thinks he’s been addicted to it as much as he’s been to his body, bendable and willing. He takes the hand away, like Nick burns. Because he does. A force of nature. A hurricane. But also wildfire. “Anyway. Tell me everything,” he’s moving away, putting distance between them, onto the armchair, on the other end of the coffee table.

He pretends he doesn’t see how the ache on Nick’s face no longer disperses into disappointment and sullenness but stays there, permanent, only dormant. Like Nick got used to scraps and Nick gorged himself on them like they were treats.

But then he dives into stories about the children, munching on his apple, living these kids’ lives completely.

“Carlitos still struggles with second serve. His confidence is in shambles but it might have something to do with his sister’s chemo. I gave him a whole list of songs to listen to and my lucky headphones and he was doing magic. Sofia is super impatient and she lets the rallies defeat her on the spot. She’s overdoing shots so much to finish early and she’s making errors all the time. I showed her some of the magic tricks Matt used to teach me and then I revealed the catch so that she could see how much work and precision is needed to achieve the final effect. She was so blown out all she wants to do now is rallies, and magic tricks, hehe” Nick babbles enthusiastically, his words fast and slurred, but what speaks to Rafa more, is his body language, fully engaged, like he’s sharing a thrilling story (living the lives of these kids to the fullest), his eyes lit up with smile and fondness and he becomes the brightest spot glowing with life and hopeful and good.

Rafa feels like he hasn’t been outside, in the sun for so long. It hurts him, he can almost smell the court in his nostrils, feel the clay under his shoes, remember the thrill before training sessions, the anticipation to share his passion for tennis with these kids. It hurts him, like the sun can be too bright, too intense but you will always miss it during overcast, you will always blossom under the rays of it. There’s dim feeling of softness inside him, too. He thinks it’s pride or affection or both combined. But the hurt, selfish hurt to have this sun for himself, wins. His breath grows quicker and he can feel the surge of panic on the verge to overtake him. He clutches the arms of the chair, pushing himself through commenting, and sounding unshaken.

“Nick. I didn’t learn so much about these kids in a month as you did in few days.”

“They were just intimidated because you know greatest of all time showing them tennis tricks, I mean, I would flip, too.”

“You would?” his breath stabilizes and he’s giving Nick a small smile now. The softness he doesn’t dare to name yet stirs more inside him.

“Shut up,” pouting and abashed and Rafa thinks about stroking that cheek and stealing that shy smile onto his mouth, maybe. God. He scatters the feeling away with teasing.

“Magic tricks, you say?” eyebrow raised to Nick’s pout turning to a smile that makes it really difficult to not give in to the feeling of softness inside for. Thankfully, Nick’s finished with his fruit and he’s moving to the kitchen island to throw it away and grab a bottle of water on the way.

“I could show you, Raf. I would. But there’s a price, you know. This amount of awesome I produce doesn’t come cheaply,” his beaming, excited smile becomes a teasing smile, much safer, much known territory for Rafa to maneuver, as he’s leaning against the kitchen counter with a nonchalant, challenging pose.

“Of course it does, “ Rafa comments amused. “Do I dare to even ask about your price, mister magician?” he’s standing up with the intention of heading for the bathroom to finish his post jogging routine when Nick’s response stops him mid-step.

“The kids ask about you. They ask about you all the time. It’s not much of Rafa Academy without you there, is it? And they were asking about our match. About seeing us on court together and they were talking about it like it’s some free ticket to a cinema for a blockbuster Disney film or some shit and,” Nick pauses, expression wistful and maybe even painful. Rafa keeps his guarded and untouchable. But he thinks. No. He knows they are sharing the same exact emotions. Of melancholy. Of ache. Of remembering. Them. Together. A spectacle on the arena of ancient games.

Nick is a tornado, marking Rafa’s life with his colours, with his sounds, with his encompassing, vivid presence. But Rafa never missed it more than when thinking about them facing each other on court. With storm brewing, with lightning setting the skies on fire, with air swirling between them charged with electricity.

Rafa always feels this gaping nothing inside him where tennis filled him to the brink. And Nick is an inseparable part of this absence. And there’s grief over that, but there’s anger, resentment, there’s envy too, for him daring to move on, to have this, to be in this, without Rafa. Selfish and cruel and stupid and hurting.

Nick’s eyes grow dim and clouded with memories. He sees the dust of the battle, the smoke after the fires they started, he hears the roars of victories and shouts of frustration, he remembers the wheel of their inevitable going round and round and never stopping, never stopping, never stopping. No. Nothing lasts forever.

“Shit, Raf,” he stumbles, chokes on words. Afraid of continuing. Afraid of applying more pain. But Nick is a force of nature, he can’t keep anything bottled inside, it’s a molten lava that will burn him alive. “It’s just. We are all grieving, you know. We all feel this loss. And the kids will never have any other hero,” he sounds like a boy. Like he is those kids, too. He doesn’t even look at Rafa, raw and exposed. Sounding small. Sounding like he was promised a star from the night sky and it turned out to be a lie. You can’t have stars from the sky. They are always far away. They are always unreachable for you.

Rafa goes to him, stands close and lift his head up by the chin, a wisp of a touch, soft and reassuring. But then he says, indisputable, harsh, methodical. “It doesn’t change anything, Nick,” it doesn’t. Stars are still galaxies away and you can’t keep one for yourself.

Nick’s eyes are warm, soft, brown and very very sad, when he dares to hold Rafa’s gaze, faced with this grief, this emptiness, named out loud. And Rafa’s hand goes to his smooth cheek (he looks so young like that, without his stylized stubble, clean-shaven, no longer hiding behind his creations and fancies). A boy wishing for a star. A boy understanding the sky will always be out of reach. He cradles it, like he wanted before, like he has any consolation left to offer (even though he doesn’t, there’s hollowness inside him, miles away from acceptance) and Nick chases the touch, chases the scraps. “How did you even talk to the kids, Nick? Hablas español, chiquito?” Rafa goes for a lighter tone, takes his palm away, not missing the fact Nick practically seeks the sensation, as if touch starved. Desperate for scraps. (It still spreads with an ache inside him but followed with a thrill of having that control, at least here, he’s strong, he deals the cards, he can mould Nick to whatever whims).

“I speak kids if you must know and I am the ultimate pro at this,” Nick flaunts his chest now, playing along with the teasing and the pretending. Then he adds, suggestively. “Come to think of it, Raf, I am your governess. Teaching your kids, living in your house.”

“And?”

“And,” Nick brings himself closer. “you know, the governesses often ended up in a hot, forbidden affair with their employers,” he trails patterns on Rafa’s blue Tshirt, spelling it out for him with his body always perched for scraps, bringing them onto the safe ground they both know how to step on. That oblivion of physicality. That fake medicine. Placebo they both cling to like it’s real. Like it works. Like it’s healing.

“Since when you’re 19th century literature fan?” Rafa lets him, because he seeks this, too. Control and familiar is here, as he puts his arms on the kitchen counter, trapping Nick in. Offering a possibility.

“The fact that you know it’s 19th century literature, makes you an accomplice, Raf,” Nick’s hands travel to Rafa’s shoulders and weave into his wet hair, scratching skin, playing with the strands. Like there’s being together for them. Like there’s intimacy of their bodies not oblivion.

“The governess often died of pneumonia or croup, too,” Rafa says to Nick’s ear like he’s sharing a secret, lingering, breathing to his skin there.

“But not before getting some,” and Nick devours the possibility given, by nuzzling his cheek, the stubble there, the feel of his smoothness against it stirring something primal, something growling for a feast in Rafa.

They might be hugging. They might be close. Lovers sharing a moment of playful affection.

Rafa offers a possibility, mouthing skin behind Nick’s ear, to feel him arch, and then he takes it away, by breaking the contact and pulling away, to Nick’s shuddering sight of someone in physical pain.

There’s perverse kind of satisfaction. Seeing him like this, rushing after that high. The same way Rafa throws himself into the regime of a tennis player, no longer being one, and getting a reminder with every scream of pain inside his body, denying him this, making him remember. You are never coming back to this. You are never this again.

“The governesses sometimes made dinners, too, Nick. And I seem to remember a bet and me being promised one, hmm?” Rafa turns to the bathroom, throwing this challenge between them, tone casual and light, like he’s not keeping that leash Nick is tied to.

“Oh, shit. Yep, so a take-out, then?” Nick responds after him, like he wasn’t just denied scraps again, like the noose (or a collar?) was not just pulled tighter on his neck.

“First game, first set, Nadal, then?” Rafa’s laughter on his way out of the kitchen sounds cold. Like a snicker of a victory over the fallen.

*

“I don’t remember governesses ever having to go through this shit, Raf? I don’t think you read the right books,” Nick grunts, with hands on his hips, wearing a tank top and shorts and mostly absolutely ready for that gym treatment he lost to in a bet over dinner. At least outfit-wise. Because with attitude he’s lacking as per usual, but Rafa whipped more challenging cases into shape to be discouraged.

“There’s a dinner option left for you still, Nick. Your choice,” they are in Rafa’s private gym, full of equipment, sound system playing hip hop music because that was one of Nick’s conditions to ever get down here and embrace the dishonor of a lost bet.

Rafa’s wearing his full attire. The same one he always did when getting ready for the tournaments. Like he’s about to get out there on court. Like he’s about to play the match. When Nick saw him at the doorstep, he was staring for a while. The look of clingy assessment, like he’s committing it to memory, lips parted and eyes feverish. That what if. Or that memory. His bull cap, Academy’s low cut sleeveless, trademark shorts, tight and fitting to his thighs, all of this in shades of grey, making the colour of his copper skin prominent and rich. “You’re catching flies again, Nick,” Rafa chuckled, the feeling of shimmering pride under his skin over pure admiration on Nick’s face.

Rafa knows it wasn’t about just Nick wanting him. It was about Nick seeing him like before. Longing after not only his body, but Rafa Nadal being real, not buried in the ground, ashes of a myth that could not have been even real.

Rafa curses himself for giving in to the feeling of anticipation, too. Whenever he gets down here, to train, to pretend he’s getting ready for something, for a busy calendar of the tour, Wimbledon weeks ahead, the grass season in full blossom. It feels like before, like nothing has changed, like he can do it. He can go back to what was.

It’s no different now. But now he allows himself to feel something else, too. A possibility of preparing Nick for that calendar. He allows himself to entertain this ridiculous thought of living the preparations for a tour through Nick. Of maybe building that legacy with him.

“Fuck it. Vamos. Or like the youth used to say it: YOLO,” Nick strokes his hands theatrically, standing at attention (no matter how difficult it must be with his usual slouching position) and looks like he’s almost eagerly awaiting Rafa’s orders.

Nick. With his frustrations with authority figures. Nick with his resilience to anything enforced. Standing there in readiness to do anything Rafa tells him to do. The surge of control tastes like desire inside Rafa. His own body betrayed him, but Nick continues to offer him his own with addictive kind of pliancy. His voice has a growling undertone when he decides.

“3 sets, 15 reps of leg pres and lying leg curls. Then crunches and treadmill – 30 minutes. Barbell bench press – again 3 sets per 15 and finish up with 5 sets of cross crunches. And then we see,” voice definite and indisputable Rafa moves to the mattresses on the floor, nonchalantly awaiting Nick to follow.

He does. Still keeping his integrity about the matter.

“Well, fuck me.”

@

It doesn’t happen without a whole lot of complaints and grumpy attitude, obviously, before Nick actually lets the physical routine consume and exhaust him enough to stop mouthing back. The music sips in the background, enough of a motivation factor and along with Rafa monitoring the exercises, instructing and advising, it does true wonders to Nick’s commitment.

“We need to focus on your shoulders and your shoulders rotation. You put too much strain on it but your service game and the force of your shots are your biggest weapon. Your body won’t let you continue without a price, Nick,” Rafa helps to shape him into good side lateral raise position. There’s nothing sensual about it, touching his naked skin, feeling the sweat marking his dedication, marking his involvement in trying, in succeeding. Nick is physically drained, too, to treat it as such, and yet having him pliant, trusting, a clay to mould on, keeps that thrill under Rafa’s skin alive and felt.

There’s bitterness in the confession. There’s angry admittance. There’s betrayal, too. Because he hardened his body in fire all the time, he made it steel, he thought he was creating indestructible weapon and it still turned on him. It still became his self-destruction.

“You know I invested so much in my service game not to run on court too much,” Nick quickly throws this in, lifting the weight sideways, grunting in effort, still being able to afford smirking at Rafa who closely watches his progress.

“And then you had to face a good returner,”

“Like you,” Nick interrupts, to Rafa lifting an eyebrow, never being the one for flattery, but Nick’s yielding, also in words, continues to taste electric to him. He hums in approval.

“Si and then what?”

“And then I was fucked,” Nick keeps on doing second set of repetitions, seating and breathing hard, but determined and focused and strong. His arms ripple with muscles, his chest heaves but strains all broad and strong and Rafa watches him, thinking of the potential, thinking of moulding him into the same steel he’s hardened himself into being. He could by this hammer of strength, too. He could be relentless with his stubbornness. He could burn bright and lasting with this attitude he has.

“This you were. So, if you want to go with this comparison, Nick,” Rafa stands in front of him now, gliding his hands along his shoulders and arms to stabilize his position and then lets him continue as he talks. “You should think of rallies as an act of fucking, cariño,” this has Nick’s attention right away as he pauses mid-motion, grin on his mouth. “No, no, no. Continue, only then I will talk,” and so Nick does, with that extra boost, energized, properly motivated. “You start slow. Slowly, sweetheart. You don’t give your all, you don’t push with your all. Slow, building up thrusts, yes? Saving your energy, your body warming up to it, sleeking up to it, but it’s not about fucking right away. It’s about looking for that spot, that mark to hit, to know you can go all the way in. And so you push, more and more in, with growing force, showing yourself more, too, because it’s a way two-way street, Nick. The deeper you plunge, the more you are exposing yourself, too. So the rhythm is growing, the strength of your movement, too and only then you start giving your all, only then you start going deeper and deeper, fucking with full force you have, going into the net, to press your opponent completely, to pin them to the ground, to make them pliant and yours as you finish up with a volley by the net, both of you spent and sated, si?” Rafa smiles at Nick’s heaving and biting his lip, eyes glossy, but he continues to lift the weight, even if his movement is a bit shaky, even if he might be growing hard.

Good association. Physical strain with that pleasure. Is the trigger that could set this particular hammer off. That could make this weapon go off in the future. Nick whimpers and finishes the set with a groan that has more to it than just physical fatigue.

“Jesus, Raf,” Nick lets the leads go and bows, leaning on his hands, trying to catch breath, trying to soothe his body responding to phantom sensations.

“That’s why we need to work on your cardio, Nick,” Rafa pets his shoulder, an intentional ghost of a touch aiming at wiring Nick, but Nick then suppresses him, as he often did on court (sometimes charging through rallies with that rocket power of his, hammer hardened in fire in the making) and catches his hand, keeping it close to his wet, warm skin and asking, eyes hazy, seductive.

“So, how do you explain your one-two punch, then, Rafa? How do you explain finishing that fast?”

Rafa lets him. Sprawls his palm for it to cover his entire shoulder, fingers digging into skin, slowly moving to his exposed collarbone, slipping that shoulder string off along the way. Nick sighs and brings himself closer and Rafa says, deliberately looking at his lips. “When you know which spot to hit, Nick, you know exactly how to leave them spent and fucked quickly.”

There’s a ghost of a kiss they exchange before Rafa lets him go and moves to a treadmill with an urging. “30 minutes of jogging now. Cardio time, bombon.”

@

Nick’s standing by the window of the gym, gulping on the bottle of water, completely wet, towel covering his shoulders, hair a mess of damp strands as if he’s just washed it. There’s a clear view on the court outside Rafa’s residence from there and after he’s done with drinking he remains there, drained, unlike himself, still and staring. Rafa doesn’t see his expression. Rafa’s turning off the sound system, checking if all the machines are shut down and stealing glances at Nick, seeing him in a completely different light, strong, capable, determined, and yet, that shadow of longing for that submission he’s capable of, he’s willing to offer completely is there, dark and thick and heavy inside him, too.

There’s silence stretching, interrupted only by Rafa’s bustling about. There’s comfort to it and familiarity. Like it’s become their routine. Like Nick was always meant to be on this path in the darkness and Rafa was always meant to guide him through it. Like that. Like a guardian shaping that raw metal into precious one.

Nick breaks the silence with soft and melancholic, “Your court looks like tennis feels like since you’ve been gone.”

It hits Rafa like a punch. The simplicity of it. The rawness of it. But also a brutal reminder of this purgatory he’s trapped in. His entire house became the vessel for this grief. You enter it like mausoleum and the court is like festering wound at the center of it. Open, bleeding, for everyone to see.

Nick watches it, can’t tear his eyes away from it and Rafa feels exposed. Bare. With his broken body and broken inside, too. Nick’s still talking, though. “I used to dream about it. I didn’t admit it to myself, how much I want it, but that was the reason of my resentment, my frustration. Chasing you. As my trainer. As my role model. As someone, anyone, in my life. Showing me. Helping me. I was stupid and proud or stubborn or all of the above. And I didn’t admit it to myself but I wanted you since I can remember in any way present in my life. But thinking about you being this, like today, giving me the reason to try, to work, to want to. Fuck. And not having this, but knowing what it feels like. That’s perfect punishment, Raf,” Nick doesn’t look at him. Still soaks up the view of the court, like something terrible and beautiful, that work of art that’s been broken to pieces but flashes of its former beauty still peek through.

He’s not being accusatory. He just states the facts. He still stays. And lets Rafa executed his punishment (apply his medicine). He still stays.

Rafa wants to go to him, touch him, reassure him. But it would work like whips too. He doesn’t trust himself around Nick at all. He doesn’t know what’s his genuine human response and what’s bitterness pouring out.

He just says, matter-of-factly. “Same time, tomorrow, Nick. Don’t be late,” like he’s promising: _but here and now we can be this and you can have this and we can hope for absolution._

*

But there are also bad days and Rafa’s slipping into hollow and angry and grieving and pulling Nick with himself, by that leash he put on his neck, like the noose, suffocating them both.

Rafa’s routine is unbreakable. He’s like a clockwork, wired with that tour calendar, his body on autopilot, even if it’s made of nothing but pain it still leads him through all the elements of his daily schedule. Dieting, exercising, thinking in tournaments related dates, not actual seasons.

So he still gets up at dawn, has light breakfast and goes to his gym, to push the limits, to trick himself into thinking he’s getting ready for the tour, reminding his body that he can and he will and nothing has changed.

He always crosses the lines. Carlos often monitored his regime, knowing Rafa will overdo it, knowing Rafa will not let the limits define him, knowing Rafa feels infinite and invincible, high on adrenaline, high on tennis, pain something inseparable, hardening steel, never an alarming sign of how close to the edge he actually is. There was always someone there, to tell him to stop, to drag him from that cliff before he dives deeper and deeper. Until he dived and never raised up again the way he was. And now with his broken body, after crawling back up on that scarp he jumped from over and over again he punishes his body, demanding it to become great again, expecting it to, desperately hoping, waiting for a reset or a reborn or both.

It always ends the same. He has the dose of shots in the box with him, no longer calling for Rafael every time he feels like dying in agony. It’s perfectly measured, because Rafael’s aware of Rafa’s gung ho attitude. And Rafa knows himself he’s not getting any more doses apart from those assigned to him weekly, kept in storage. Of course it never goes according to rota. Because he always overtrains himself. But he’s been living with this pain for so long, its presence almost familiar, its presence like the source of fuel for him now, pulsing aches echoing thoughts in his head: _growing pains, growing pains, growing pains, that’s how you become anew, that’s how you are reborn_. Even with no more shots left in the depot he’s going to keep going, he’s going to keep pushing. That gaping wound in him like a living monster consuming everything else in his life, slowly, inevitably, before he even noticed.

No one knows this. Whenever he checks in for a weekly portion of his medicine with Rafael, he acts like it’s all routine, like he’s not run out of it in the middle of the week already, half numb with pain (wrapped in anger, wrapped in apathy, wrapped in both most of the days).

That day he’s finishing with back extensions when the lightning bolt of spasm makes him almost go blind. He curls into himself, first instinct, organic, biological response, before the denial in him works its magic and he composes himself to monument of endurance. It quickly turns to burning sensation covering his entire body, to the point of him no longer recognizing the cause of it. He’s nothing but pain, but he doesn’t remember ever being without it. (Funny, or tragic, just as he doesn’t remember ever being without tennis. Tennis always brought pain and so, after a while, they became indistinguishable to him. Except pain stayed. Pain won. Pain took over).

He goes to the cabinet, scrambling through content, knowing he won’t find what he’s looking for, knowing the chamber of the gun is empty (that’s a part of the routine, isn’t it). The pain travels and he’s shaking, before he reaches for a fucking regular aspirin to help deceive himself. To trick his own brain and to play hide and seek with his body.

It works. It always does. The shimmer of pain doesn’t bother him. It’s always there. And he can go back to push ups now. There’s still half an hour on the clock. As scheduled. As expected of him. But this time Nick finds him, leaning against the wall, trying to regulate his own breathing, sweaty from the exercises but from suffering now, too. Nick finds him like a wounded wild animal bleeding out in the middle of the woods.

Nick’s never up that early. He no longer sleeps in, either. The first day Rafa barged into his room, rolled up the shades and casually announced: “Breakfast downstairs, no room service here, nene. You’re supposed to be at the Academy in an hour. If you’re late, you’re spending the entire afternoon at the gym.”

Fluffy head of thick, black hair peeks from beneath the covers with a groan and a loud yawn and then hoarse voice mumbles from the material of the pillow he’s drooling into. “Wow. You really do know how to charm a guy a morning after, babe, do you?”

“I’m serious, Nick. Also, if you’re not quick enough, there may be no breakfast for you at all,” Rafa tries to go past the bed, with Nick slowly coming out of the bundle of sheets and covers, in his Iron Man pajamas, mop of rumpled hair and squinting his eyes with disapproval and inside torment. But then his hand shoots up to catch Rafa’s with mirth on his face and in his smirk.

“See? If we slept in one bed, you would just wake me up on time and we could avoid this entire mess, Raf,” Rafa lets their hands brush for a moment (Nick is warm and soft and Rafa doesn’t remember the last time he woke up to anyone warming up space by him in his bed, safe, grounding, intimate. There’s longing after that. There’s maybe even curiosity to have that with Nick. God.) He snorts to Nick’s words and to his own thoughts before letting go and rushing downstairs with Spanish encouragements following him.

Seeing him now, in his tank top and his shorts, barefoot, sleepy but there, looking at Rafa with growing urgency, peeling Rafa off layers so that the pretences crumble and he can feel the entire rawness of pain, sends him into spiral of grief, of anger, of shame. No medicine for that in his locker. No. But Nick standing there might be.

They look at each other, Rafa – like a restless bull hounded by an electric whip back to his stall (or a prison of suffocation) and Nick – vulnerable, empathetic, wanting to set him free, telling him with his expression and with his body, too.

Rafa goes to him in few strides, (stomping of the bull) like seeking that relief in needle, this armour against agony, even though his legs feel wobbly and his body unlike his own. He needs to remind himself. He needs to remember. He will. He will find the answer in Nick’s body, like he always did.

He’s facing Nick now, remnants of sleep on his face touching it with innocence and boyishness that stings with guilt in Rafa, but pain and shame are so big they drown out everything else. Apart from that pull to heal himself. To pretend he can. Almost like an answer to that Nick’s body sways, with gravity. Like he wants to close that gap between them. Like he wants to give himself to him, to treat, to mend, to fix. To pretend.

“Do you remember what I asked you in Paris?” Rafa’s voice sounds weak and small. He hates it. He hates himself.

“Fuck, what? Which one, Raf?” Nick’s dazed, like he’s already drunk on the sensations. Like he’s already drunk on their fucked up treatment therapy. So pliant. So willing. Jesus.

“Do you trust me? With telling me it’s enough?” only after uttering their spoken agreement he thinks, maybe Nick is the same, with naming the limits, with playing his hide and seek with the limits. Maybe they are nothing but lies and hurts and guilts together. Fueling that wildfire that will consume them. He then realizes he doesn’t care. He’s jumping off that cliff and he’s taking Nick with him.

Nick says yes. Nick wants him to. “Yes, Raf, yes, please,” reaching out for him, first. As if he forgot the rules, as if he dared to assume this is about intimacy, not medicine.

Rafa tuts and grabs Nick’s hands in a firm grip, denying him. This is what this is about. How could he forget. Putting his hands behind him, Rafa whispers to his ear, moist breath and flashes of teeth, there. “Tell me, chiquito. Tell me what do you dream you could have?”

“Anything. Anything,” Nick’s liquid in his hands already. That’s delirious. A puppet of this want, the same way Rafa is to his pain or tennis or both. What’s the difference.

“Keep your hands behind yourself, now,” Rafa lets his palms go putting one of his hands on Nick’s hip, to ground him, and the other one trails upward his chest, through a material of his shirt feeling the changes to his physique, envious of this body brimming with possibilities, (ashamed of his own, like crippled, like hijacked). He catches on hardening nipples, rubbing them to see him respond, to see him arch and part his lips, too. Strong, capable body, (the anger brims that it’s no longer his own) and yet absolutely at his mercy (but this part is similar and Rafa intends to exploit it).

His finger slips into Nick’s eager, warm mouth and he instantly reacts. Lapping on it, asking for more. And Rafa provides, letting Nick coat one, two, three digits with his saliva, sucking, his tongue busy, his head moving, to the hypnotic, bobbing rhythm. “Hmmm, what do you think about? Do you think about my cock in your mouth like that, niño? So needy for it? Gagging on it, hmm?” Nick hums around his fingers, his eyelids flutter, his tongue flattening along the entire length of Rafa’s fingers and he’s being so greedy, wanting, wanting, wanting. Rafa pulls out, to trace Nick’s lips (thinking about them around him, thinking about the softness of them on him, casting the thoughts away, because he’s here to control and to use). So, with his other hand, he’s travelling to the front of Nick’s shorts, to palm him, to feel him growing hard and ready (to feel him being utterly _his_ ). With his teeth on Nick’s earlobe he suggests. “Or maybe I should make that promise happen. And give you a hand today? Fuck you with my hand, hmmm?” Nick is back to slurping on his digits, shameless, desperate, bucking to that other hand now stroking his cock through a material of his shorts.

Rafa’s head is filled with white noise. This buzz of feelings overlaying each other. Nick is beautiful. Nick is pathetic. Nick is fragile and dear. Nick needs to be used and exploited to last drop. All of this swirls inside into one incomprehensible message so he lets his body take over and act instead.

Rafa takes his hand out of Nick’s mouth now, to saliva trailing down his chin (a leash). He looks like he’s coming down the high, licking on his mouth, like drinking on Rafa’s sweat. Controlled. Owned. _His_. Rafa still plays with his cock through his shorts, with Nick rocking against him in irregular motion, saying, voice hoarse, breaking. “Your cock is like a Grand Slam trophy, right? I’m not worthy enough to get it. No, wait. I got that one. Remember? Your Roland Garros mantle is mine, now,” he doesn’t sound convincing at all, taunting, provoking. Even if it works for a moment. Something inside Rafa flares. It’s hot, ugly, possessive and hateful and he wants to push Nick to the limits, break him. Hurt him. Drive him away, like he did everyone else in his life.

“If this is what it takes to keep you quiet,” Rafa wanders with his hand to Nick’s ass to pull him against himself, to make him feel himself, through sweaty clothes, how hard he is too. What he’s missing. What he will never have. The other one is under Nick’s shirt, caressing his stomach, and then his nipples to see him bow and stretch obscenely. Play his part. Bendable and breakable.

The surge of heat inside him grows. He never knows for sure over what. He doesn’t trust himself at all. He still doesn’t know if he wants Nick or if he wants to control and deny Nick and feel righteous. Powerful, too. Feel healed.

Feel broken, dirty and wrong in the aftermath, really.

“Fuck, please,” Nick’s thrusting against Rafa almost helplessly, chases his closeness, seeking his body desperately. He’s trying to capture Rafa’s mouth, as they share warm, heavy breaths _. Yes. Good. Show how much you want it for it to be taken away from you._ Rafa thinks, while still letting him, moving with him. Nick’s hands act disobedient and land on Rafa’s abs, trying to reach for them both, to get them closer. Rafa swaps them away and breaks the contact altogether.

Too much. Too beyond his control. Too close to getting lost, too, maybe.

“Turn around, stand still and wait for me” Rafa orders like he does during their training sessions. This is what he does, isn’t he? Trains this puppet of cruel, unwilling fate. Like he himself is.

He goes to the cabinet by the window and pulls out bandanas, he never let go of. He looks at the black texture, touches the softness of it, traces the sign of his which is meaningless now, has been meaningless for a while, shoves them into his pocket to bury the ache that comes with the memories. Then he looks at Nick standing there, waiting for him (not only in this literal sense, here and now, but maybe always waiting for Rafa to go back from this path). He’s obedient and submissive, _his, his, his_ , to do everything Rafa wants with him. There’s wistfulness inside him that threatens to burst and flood him with ache for them both. But there’s also rush of dominance, of vindication or both, making Rafa almost snarl as he stomps back to his toreador to conquer him.

He pulls Nick closer by his hips, to let him feel himself again, brushing against his ass, that promise of maybe, one day, that wisp of a taste of what it could be. Nick moans and responds and it looks like they are dancing, swaying their hips in one rhythm. Rafa gives in to it for a moment, to the warmth and closeness Nick’s body provides, as he’s mouthing wet and warm nothings to the crook of Nick’s neck, to see he’s touching himself. “Ah, ah, ah, hands off, baby. Focus on the feeling of my cock, now. Almost there, right where you want it, si? Think of me slipping inside you,” and Rafa thrusts with his hardness for Nick to feel as much as he can. Nick whimpers, curse words, the names of the saints, or Rafa’s name, maybe it’s all the same right now for Nick. Salvation, damnation, blended in. “Think of me slipping into you, where you’re warm and tight and you don’t want to let me go, do you? You clench around me and I just stay inside you like this, let you feel me, hard, thick and yours, before I fuck you loose and spent and mine, mine, mine,” he accentuates with sped up slams of his hips against Nick’s ass, like his shots, relentless and claiming. And Nick could always manage them. And Nick could always reciprocate. Like he does now. As they move together like made to be this.

The whimpers turn to almost sobs and Rafa feels it in his core. The raw need of Nick to have him like that. Or whose need this is? He remembers their tennis, he feels Nick now catching up with him the same way and he wants. He’s wet for Nick and Nick can feel it. Can feel him affected.

“You’re so fucking hard, Rafa. You want me. Just let go, fucking let go, please,” Nick pleads and he doesn’t only talk about this, about having Rafa, about Rafa taking him. It angers Rafa. This boy picking him apart. This boy seeing into him. This boy knowing. He bites into juncture on his neck, leaving marks on the outside with his teeth and on the inside with the words that follow.

“Arrogant, as always. I’m hard because you’re begging for it. Begging for me, Nick. I want it, like this. Not you,” it’s cruel. Nick pauses, a shudder palpable under his skin, a gasp having nothing to do with Rafa’s cock persistently rubbing against the cleft of his ass through the material. There’s stillness to them now, Rafa’s hands on the hem of Nick’s shirt, ready to disrobe him of everything, shame and desperation mostly. Their hips touching with an echo of what they could be doing pulsing underneath. And Rafa asks with a moist breath to Nick’s ear. “Do you understand this, Nick?”

It takes him a while to answer. Like he doesn’t trust his voice. Eventually he says. “Yes.” And it’s disarming. Simple. Giving. And Rafa’s glad he doesn’t see his face. There’s slimy feeling of disgust with himself stirring under the white noise buzzing. There’s rush of need to hold Nick, to stop them, to just hold him and mend them back into whole like this. Rafa asks, hands still, closeness between them almost intimate. “Do you want to continue?”

“Yes,” firmer, surer, absolute. Or maybe just desperate. And Rafa should say _no_ to that, Rafa should hold him, Rafa should know better.

But he doesn’t. Or it’s in desperation that they drown. Acceptance and healing nowhere in sight.

He noses his way along Nick’s nape, then nuzzles thick, soft, fluffy hair on the back of his head while mouthing to his skin. “Lift up your arms for me, then, hermoso,” spoken like to a lover, with softness and a promise of worship. Rafa thinks about Nick being this, thinks about adoring this honey-like skin, loving his body, not punishing it, not using it, when Nick does what he’s told, leaning, trusting, _his_. Rafa rejects it all. Rafa chooses oblivion. Rafa chooses to jump from the cliff, pulling Nick with himself.

He takes off Nick’s shirt, scatters it on the floor and lets his finger write gentle promises of what could have been on this mesmerizing skin, he thinks he sometimes, often, dreams about (yearns after) but pretends to forget. Down Nick’s spine, along his backsides, watching him bend, feeling him respond, hum like an instrument he touches the right chord of. “Will you say no to me, Nick?” voice luring in, voice coaxing, he takes Nick’s hands into his (like holding them lovingly, like they can be this, like they are this, lovers, making love, maybe he sees flashes, maybe he deems them possible, but not with his treacherous body). Speaking like a lover, touching like one, he still binds Nick’s hands with a bandana taken out of his pocket.

Nick accepts. Nick is willing. So Nick responds with the only possible answer. “I don’t think I can. I don’t think I will,” it’s defeated but it’s also indisputable. They are both doomed, then.

Like a seal of that. Like a confirmation, he puts another bandana so that it covers Nick’s eyes and then slips his shorts down his legs so that they fall to the ground with the rest of his clothes, like layers peeled off him.

Nick’s naked and bound. (Nick’s claimed and he’s doomed). He sighs, feeling Rafa envelope him from behind to guide him, hands on his hips, to the leather chair of one of the machines. “Sit down and spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” Rafa pushes him downwards, onto the seat. Nick does, settles himself on the edge, hands tied behind his back, legs opening up for Rafa, cock straining and wet.

“You’re a vision, Nick,” Rafa says, admiring. Patches of golden skin shining in the dim light of the gym, body willing, body his. He could do everything to him and he wants, he wants so much. Does he want this power? This control? Or just to have this body, to have this man, saying his name with desperate devotion of nothing else meaning more than this. To have this boy trusting, giving, trying, struggling and winning and Rafa being proud and Rafa leaving his legacy and this boy being lost but being found, too.

Healing. Acceptance.

For a moment he just wants, devours the view, digests the realization that it’s all _his, his, his._

“Thanks, babe, but I’m not here to win beauty contest, yeah? Come here. Let me make it worthy of your time,” Nick purrs and licks his lips, opening his legs in obscene invitation, making himself into an offering, a lure, in their game of forget and pretend. Wet, hard and ready. Rafa doesn’t want to think about healing. Doesn’t want to think about acceptance. He’s greedy, he feels powerful and he wants to take and grow in this strength and feel infinite like he always did across the net, grounded in physicality and capability of his body. He feels like he has a body with Nick, that he’s in sync with, that is under his control, that is able and limitless.

His fingers caress those full lips again, making them part, making Nick swallow him again, like an imitative act of what he really wants to do. What he really wants. And what he shall be denied again and again. “You’re still under the impression you’re calling the shots here, niño?” his wet fingers, coated in Nick’s saliva go to his neck, digging into the skin there, feeling him swallow (thinking about him swallowing his length, choking on him, Rafa feeling himself so deep inside, dangerously claimed, maybe he already is, the way he’s responding, heat inside him making his legs go weak, making him want to fuck Nick’s mouth till he’s hoarse from nothing but a taste of him).

“Do you think about your cock choking me, Raf? Do you think about going so deep I can’t feel anything but you there and I clench around you and I need even more of you, fuck and you’re coming and I swallow and swallow more and more, I swallow everything?” Nick sounds like Rafa has already used his throat, low and heavy when Rafa’s hand trails downwards to stroke his nipples, to pet his abs as Rafa’s going lower and lower with his body, too. He’s on his knees (the pain subsided beneath the fog of adrenaline and placebo) with hand closing on Nick’s weeping cock and the other one spreading him even wider, when he mouths to the center of his chest (his heart hammering so loud Rafa thinks he can sense him over the surface of his skin, _his, his, his_ ).

“Hmmm, maybe I do but the question is how much do you want it? How much do you want my cock, Nick and you still won’t get it. I’m on my knees now and I’m giving you my mouth and I’m gonna spend you dry and I’m gonna make a mess out of you, boy,” he’s adoring Nick’s heaving chest with his mouth, makes a feast out of his nipples, with his tongue and teeth, with palms mapping his thighs (shuddering under every point of contact), moving upwards and downwards, feeling Nick arch for more, move forward with that pliant desperation he has the whole abundance for Rafa to drink from. To have. To grow stronger in lies, in pretences, in this game of control they have.

“Promises, promises, nothing but big words,” Nick tries to come across as daring, but the way his body twists and bends for Rafa tells him otherwise. The way he’s biting on his lip, even with eyes covered, (Rafa feels a pang of regret, to see him transparent like with need through his eyes in this moment, but it’s a two-way street, his eyes would try to steal Rafa, too) there’s still raw neediness painting his expression into purest ache. Rafa wants to dive in, Rafa wants to get drunk on this (forget, fuel his placebo, replace pain with control). Not yet. Not just yet.

“No, that’s you. Not me, Nick,” he says to his cheek, hands close to Nick’s cock, not touching, merely tantalizing. “I always deliver on my promises,” he ghosts a kiss on Nick’s parted, opening, asking, seeking lips (no, this is not intimate, this is not about giving each other pleasure, this is about power and control, he still pretends he doesn’t think or dream about the taste of Nick’s lips with that bare need for Rafa afterwards, when they almost kiss).

And then with mouths chasing each other he starts pumping Nick’s wet cock, dragging him closer to the edge of the chair, wrapping his legs around his waist, with Nick’s hands trapped behind him, bound (what would they feel scratching, mapping, tearing on Rafa’s skin, marking it? Is another thought he pushes beneath the fog of pretences where his pain stays formant). Nick still makes a perfect bow for him to play on. Nick’s leaning backwards, rocking into Rafa’s fist, moaning around delirious chuckles and swear words and Rafa’s name.

He’s coating the soft surface with precum, stroking him with dedication, fondling with it with almost careful precision he would give to preparing his racket before the match and with his other hand he travels to Nick’s opening, teasingly palming his balls and then circling the rim with his finger. Nick’s snaps in half, bending forward, breathing hot, whimpering breath into Rafa’s mouth now (echoes of kisses they never exchange). “See? You’re already a mess. You clench around me so much. You would take anything now, would you? I could use my fist, I could use a dildo, you would have anything, still thinking of my cock, fucking you, finally taking you, si?” the way he lets him in instantly, like made for Rafa, like waiting for Rafa his entire life. The way this intimate core of him envelops him with this greedy need in Nick translating into a way his body responds to Rafa’s touch, is intoxicating. Nick’s heels on Rafa’s back try to pull him closer, his legs open even wider for Rafa to take, take everything. Rafa can’t fight the moan that escapes him, mesmerized by the beauty and vulnerability of this boy.

Nick’s moving under his hands, his body a spasm of echoing promises: _yours, yours, yours,_ when he says, voice breaking, voice stripped bare for Rafa.”It’s just a body, Raf. Instincts, stupid fucking instincts. Biology. You don’t give a fuck about my body fucked by your cock. It’s not your medicine. You could have anyone. You could have your wife for that,” it feels like a punch, like he’s ripped off all layers, like he’s stark naked now with his scars, with his wounds, with his decaying inside pulled onto outside, so he stops touching Nick, now, freezes and chokes on somewhat cold, piercing air, like he’s drowning, suffocating on shame. His hand coated with Nick goes to Nick’s neck now, to grab, to stop the words from coming and whipping him, to make Nick swallow them back.

“Cállate, Nick. Cierra la puta boca,” he grunts each word close to Nick’s mouth, with his fingers still inside him, deep, sucked in, by Nick’s body hopelessly wired with instinct. And this, now, feels like the very essence of them.

Rafa’s hand closing on Nick’s neck to choke him, leaving bruises, leaving marks of punishment he chases and wants for him (and himself) endlessly, forever. And Rafa’s fingers buried inside him with intimacy of lovers to open him up to sink into him in holy oneness.

The shame inside him flares up with pain that’s no longer a numb sensation but an inflamed wound, so he pulls out, to Nick’s whimper (Rafa hurts even more to that, because this boy wants him, wants him in spite of, always, God) and Nick arching to his other hand violent and punishing (like any form of touch is a blessing to him). Rafa releases the grip too, to Nick’s sight that sounds like _more_ and puts his palm on Nick’s wet chest, where his heart beats, beats with devotion, with sincerity, with acceptance.

He’s no longer wrapped around Rafa and Rafa’s surprised how he longs for the sensation of grounding and whole.

Nick continues. Outrageous. Brave. Genuine. Exposed. “It’s true. You can’t even fucking look me in the eye, that’s how much you know it’s true. It’s not about fucking. It’s about me wanting you. For you. Not for your body. Not for your fucking magic cock, Rafa. I want you, do you hear me? I want you,” and then he inhales, his breath shaky, his heart now so loud, Rafa not only senses it underneath his hand (like holding it on his palm, open and bleeding) but thinks he can hear it, chasing the pulse in him, trying to sound in unison, but failing. And then the words that follow drown in the buzz inside Rafa’s head, released with pain no longer suppressed. “I love you, Raf. And you’re a fucking coward. You, the greatest of all time, you run from the truth. It’s not in your body, like it’s not in mine. It’s in a head. In a heart, Rafa. You just need to fucking let go.”

He can feel the words on his body, in shaky breaths, and mouths almost meeting, but miles apart. Nick’s laid completely bare for Rafa, trying to peel off his layers, too, trying to make him join him in that heap of sweaty, defenseless vulnerability he’s become, he’s always been for Rafa. He’s always been for the world, really. The hand on Nick’s chest burns him, his head rings with the noise, his whole body like set on fire with pain pouring out inside of him, from that place, buried deep beneath the concrete of denial and pretending. Physical pain becomes ache and shame and guilt and a wave of suffocating truths he’s incapable of confronting.

He’s leaning closer to Nick, almost a kiss of _please, forgive me,_ almost a kiss _of please, save me,_ almost a kiss of _can I love anything else ever again but tennis_. Gravity’s there instantly between them and Nick trails along his mouth with his, when Rafa unties his hands, nuzzling his cheek in daze, apologetic, a sound of his name form Nick’s lips more like a wisp of breath than an audible word. Pleading. Asking him to stay. Begging him to try.

But Rafa can’t. Rafa is not ready. He doesn’t even dare to take off the blindfold to see Nick’s eyes. To see himself in these eyes. Bare and exposed and ugly and weak. A coward.

With a last ghost of a kiss that’s not a kiss but an echo of what if he leaves, pretending he can forget the image of Nick chasing the closeness, laid bare, the feeling of his heart underneath his palm and the words he bled out with in his arms.

*

They go back to a terribly false routine after that. Rafa commits himself to his daily habits, they pass each other in the morning with Nick disappearing into the Academy and staying there as long as he can. Rafa wants to know his place, wants to see him belonging. He wants to see him making the kids trust him, follow him and love him. But he continues to hide and pretend.

Carlos confirms what he’s always believed was a part of Nick, repressed, hidden, pushed aside. His natural charisma, his loyalty and empathy, his capability to lead, because understand and reach out.

“He’s a natural, man. The kids make so much progress with him around,” he visits for lunch, when travelling in between places to set the schedule for some exhibition matches Rafa’s been planning for off season. “It’s kind of funny, you know. We were thinking of whipping him back to shape and here I start to think it might be the other way round?” he’s munching on sweet rolls absolutely casually, as if he’s not implying anything at all.

Rafa raises his eyebrow at him, feigning confusion and not stopping the offence on time.

“Okay, okay, don’t blow up just yet, amigo. It’s not even about an exhibition match, though, imagine how much traction this would get. After all those years. Your matches remained. By the end, no one could pull so much from you. In the end he was always the catalyst. As you were to him,” Carlos muses to himself, remembering, making Rafa remember, too, making Rafa feel the ache joining the pain in his body.

“It’s just sport. Don’t be such a romantic, Carlos,” he lies blatantly, naively thinking Carlos will buy it.

“Bullshit. But if you’re not ready to confront it, I’m not here to be your mom about it,” but Carlos lets it slide, knowing when to push, when to press and when to give Rafa space for him to come to terms to things in his own time, on his own. And so this is what he does now, waving his hand as if indicating he’s letting it go, until Rafa himself brings it up, and then sips his coffee and continues. “But how about brushing up on things, how about casual ball exchange while bringing that court of yours back to life along the way. It’s been turning to an actual cemetery and can we not be so literal, Raf?” Carlos looks at him now, intent but affection in his eyes.

There are thoughts battling at the back of his head, behind the thick walls of healing pretences, scenarios unraveling, painful, sober realization what he could do, what he could try, and there’s nothing to lose, not really, but Rafa is hiding. Rafa is not ready, so he says, indifferent, matter-of-factly, instead.

“Finish up, Carlos. I have phone calls to make.”

*

There are bad days in between the struggles with healing and moving on. The days there’s nothing left but oblivion and hopelessness in him. And self-hatred for ever letting Nick be in this pit with him.

That afternoon he finds the door to the forbidden room left ajar. It’s a place where remnants of his tennis are buried, locked away, put into a box with a lid closed, so that he could draw more strength to pretend, to act like his heart forgot, so that his body could too. All his trophies, pictures related to the tour, some of the equipment he didn’t give to the Academy or pleaded Carlos to get rid of, is left there, untouched, gathering dust, being there in the exact state from the past. He’s stopped going there, since Mery moved out, since Mery said, defeated and sad, like she’s lost a battle for him, maybe. “It’s like living with a ghost. And this place’s become your tomb, Rafa. This room.”

It is. It’s a graveyard of lost possibilities for him, making the pain inside him permanent. Making the absence inside him take shape and haunt him.

His legs now become concrete and he can’t move. He’s paralysed with fear. Like a boy fearing of strange noises in the attic. But he does take one step, then another one (like a child dragging himself forward, repeating inside his head you’re safe _, it’s not real, there are no ghosts_ ) to push the door open (the sound it makes sends chills down his spine, like he is entering a place with dead buried deep beneath but dancing on their own graves at night).

Nick is inside, at the squeaking sound he jumps on the spot and faces Rafa, a racket in his hand, expression of guilt, shame and poorly hidden ache.

There’s Rafa’s racket from Australian Open final, 2012. He would recognize it anywhere. He would recognize his rackets anywhere, period. It’s in Nick’s hand, his fingers wrapped around the handle, clutching to it protectively, touching it longingly. It’s intimate, it’s worshipping. It’s wrong. Nick’s presence here, disturbing this sacred perversion this room is about. Nick is a sharp reminder here, a sound of an alarm, a booming voice of judgment. Nick is a breath of life into this land of the dead and forgotten, a negative to show Rafa the misery of this place.

They look at each other in stretching silence. Rafa doesn’t ask him what is he doing here. Nick’s expression bearing the semblance of longing tells him as much. Was he touching the strings with adoration? Was he remembering every shot made in that battle for the dawn? Rafa chases the thoughts away. Rafa clings to denial, to false bravery to even be in this place and not fall to pieces.

Nick dares to move, lift up the racket and show him exactly what he was doing with it before. His fingers slip in between the strings, lovingly, sensually, and he doesn’t break the look between them. He speaks, soft, like he’s in a shrine and doesn’t want to disturb the holiness of it (this place is not dead for him, this place is full of light and glory and beauty).

“I remember every ball you made in this match with this beauty” Nick’s still touching it, and Rafa’s body stirs, like he’s being revived to life. “I think it’s my favourite match to watch. I’ve seen it live, you know? I’ve been there and it made me want to try,” Nick rephrases with emphasis then. “ _you_ made me want to try and maybe fight for it, fight for tennis, in the end,” the wave of sensations floods him. He remembers pushing the body to the limits. He remembers the burn inside his lungs and his heart hammering to the point of it breaking through his chest. He remembers feeling infinite and immortal. Soaring and victorious. He remembers control over every inch of his skin and strength inside him that felt like unbreakable steel. “We never played Australian final together. And we never will,” Nick adds, in a soft voice, his eyes soulful (even more than they normally are and Rafa realizes he always knew this, he always saw this, the vulnerability that’s there, inside Nick, bleeding out under the pretences of false bravado he always hides behind).

There’s mourning in him for them. He speaks of “them”. He pokes on Rafa’s wound Rafa’s tried to cover up so carefully and keep it away from the entire world (he is hiding, too, weakness, fear, shame under this fragile creation of healing and acceptance he was never close to achieving, not really). His heart beats with painful _I know, I know this, I feel this_ , _too_ and he loses his breath now over this growing awareness, the wound open and rotting for everyone to see. 

“Why did you come here, Nick? What do you want?” he battles the physical strain under the wave off panic threatening to knock him off his feet. He’s mastered the ability, over the years of pouring his all onto the court with the adrenaline leaving his system, he would barely stand to receive the trophies, to walk to the locker rooms to be able to change his clothes afterwards or even shower himself. He used to be the master of his body, no matter how frail, how exploited, he kept it in check, the monument of impossible. So he doesn’t lean against the door to prevent himself from breaking, bowing, seeking breath that escapes him. He doesn’t let Nick see that his legs feel like the concrete melted and he can barely stand the ground.

He’s not sure whether he’s asking about here and now or about Nick in general accepting his invitation to begin with. 

“I told you why. I’ve made it super fucking clear, Rafa,” he pins Rafa with his eyes (windows to the soul, sucking him in into the spiral of the unknown and terrifying, revealing, shared) and then he holds the racket up front, like offering, or taunting, or reminding or urging Rafa to make that choice. To make a loud statement. To finally condemn them or release them. Almost disrobing saying it out loud follows. “What do _you_ want, Raf?” Again. _You_ prominent there. Like Nick is giving up all the control. Like Nick is giving up all his trust.

Again. And again. And again. But asking, will Rafa dare too?

That rush of fear inside him, making him almost choke, disperses into something dim, distant (buried under denial). He moves, to close the door (to trap them inside this tomb of his _used to_ ), with his back to Nick. He leans with his hands on the surface, breathing rhythmically, reminding himself how. Anchoring himself in the resolve enveloping his hammering heart with something familiar, (fearful, ugly) something that’s the only semblance of control he recognizes (false, ruinous). He’s mumbling to himself, inaudible, like chanting, like seeking the truth in this anchor he feels, confirming it or making it dissolve into manipulative and fake. “Dime que pare, por favor, dime que pare,” repeated over and over again, like he’s praying. Maybe he is. For delivering himself. For delivering them both. Who is he asking, though? Himself, Nick or God?

He’s on autopilot, like the words triggered something drilled, easy and instinctive in him. It used to be tennis, playing to win, giving his all, now it’s a punishment, now it’s a cowardice. But he doesn’t see it like this, he doesn’t feel it like this either. He’s behind the glass inside his head, he’s moving forward, strides of determination, like when he walked on court with clear purpose in mind. He’s looking at Nick, looking him in the eye, and the soulfulness of his gaze tears the words buzzing inside his head out in the open now. “Tell me to stop, Nick. Tell me to stop,” he’s now close, body broad, strong and imposing, but his head a mess. He adds, voice hoarse, like he was choking on air moments before, like he’s choking on the words now. “Please.”

Nick pulls out the racket towards Rafa, brave, unstoppable, open and disarming. His eyes are gentle, not judging, not mistrusting. He knows himself, he let Rafa know himself, too and he’s bare and truthful and loyal to it all. He knows himself and he’s in control, anchored in his body, in his mind, in his soul. Like he never was before. When did it happen? How did it happen? He’s beautiful and he’s perfect. He’s young and infinite and immortal now. And Rafa should go to his knees and worship this. Worship him. Nick says, calm and undoubting. “You can’t stop, Rafa. I don’t want you to. What I want is for you to make a choice.”

But Rafa doesn’t go to his knees. He takes the racket from Nick’s hand, letting their knuckles brush (something gentle something deceiving, or maybe something apologetic) and he’s the one holding it now. A communion of sorts as they stand, facing each other, with that racket between them like a scale weighing justice, showing the damned and showing the savior.

Nick’s eyes shine with hope, Rafa thinks. With faith in him, he’s always had ( _you made me want to try at all_ echoes inside his head). Trust and devotion. As if whatever he chooses, Nick is there to deliver him (or pay his pound of flesh). There are other words in his head fluttering like butterflies kept in the cage, trying to break free. But he doesn’t let them out. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever. ( _Will you play with me? Will you remind me? Will you help me remember?_ ) What he says instead, voice firm (even if the buzz inside his head doesn’t ebb away) is. “Take off your clothes, Nick.”

As if this boy’s not completely naked for him already. Has been since the beginning.

Nick doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate, moves intuitively, like he’s learned this by heart. Because he did. He might as well have those words tattooed there.

Rafa recites the rest of the lines, they practiced together so often and they both know so well. “Go to the cabinet, turn around, lean against it, with legs spread open for me.”

And he feels like an artist on clay again, moulding in it, raising monuments of triumph and glory back in Paris, back in his kingdom of invincible wins, when Nick does exactly what he’s told, his skin shining gold like trophies did in the sun, like trophies behind the glass of the cabinet do now. It’s not sensual now, not physical. It’s about power. It’s about control. Nick is a trophy for Rafa to remember his own greatness. To take it into his hand and keep it in this glass cabinet later on.

Rafa moves, holding a strong grip on the handle (now feeling sensual, now feeling physical, it’s been ages and it fits so well to his palm and it makes him feel unstoppable, glorious and terrifying, too). He stands behind Nick, whose skin shines tentalising, muscles on his back (shaped, hardened, worked on) shudder, width of his thighs making him look like a warrior. When did this happen? Rafa watches him wistfully, like he would a work of art or that legacy he thinks he will never have. Those other words return, faded in the distance, like coming from the cave, about playing together, about training together. Rafa denies them, sees only patches of bronze skin to write their story on (this will be his legacy, like annals of ancient past slowly forgotten).

He trails the golden surface with the frame of the racket. The ripple that goes through Nick’s body is mesmerizing (that’s his clay shaped monument), stirring his hunger for more (chasing other thoughts away more efficiently). He’s moving it downwards now, slowly, gently, almost like he’s adoring. Nick arches to it, responds like a living art to it, even if there is no point of contact of their skins anymore. No intimacy. No closeness in their bodies. He stops at the small of Nick’s back, before moving lower, to his ass, to draw his poetry of worship there, with frame caressing skin like a brush (like he wants to be soft with him), catching on the cleft, slipping in. Nick’s seeking more of it, hands sprawled on the glass of the cabinet, body treacherous, body yearning, body desperate, pushing more towards the source of contact (or an instrument of punishment to deliver them both? To condemn them both?).

Nick sighs and it’s a shuddering sound. Rafa refuses to see his reflection in the cabinet. Is that a relief, is that an ache, is that sadness? He refuses to know.

Still touching Nick with that frame, writing a prologue to their story, moving slowly, tortuously, he then says, voice strong and determined. “I will hit you once. For every hit, you will remind me, Nick. You will help me remember, all the matches we played together. You will start from the beginning and then you will turn the pages of every other year we met, hmm? Is that clear?” Rafa gets himself closer to sigh to his ear (like a promise of a lover, even if it’s anything but), a racket now stopping, held between them (a weapon or a medicine? It feels so good in his hand, he’s not sure what makes the heat inside him spread more, remembering the feel of it in his palm or sick anticipation of moulding Nick with it like that).

Nick nods his head, the muscles under his skin moving as he spreads himself even wider, like sharing this thrill that goes through Rafa now.

“I need to hear you say it, tesoro,” soft and loving. Coaxing or ensuring. But whom? Himself or Nick really? Or is he asking Nick about confirmation of their agreement, is he hoping Nick remembers this is him going into this willingly, with faith he provides medicine.

“I trust you,” Nick replies the only question that really matters here. And Rafa feels moved. Protectiveness inside him shudders behind the cage with other thoughts battling there. He should go down to his knees to worship this boy, instead.

He doesn’t. He leaves a ghost of a kiss on his nape (apologies? Asking for permission? Being grateful for getting one?) and as Nick’s releasing a trembling breath, Rafa strikes, like he would on court, after thorough ritual, detailed preamble, the hit that follows is methodical and full of forceful precision.

Nick’s entire body arches, to the sound of a wrecked whimper, as if he welcomes a holy communion. He gives name to act one of their ritual, then, voice hoarse, voice straining already. “Wimbledon.”

“Hmm, it felt like a final to me, Nick. Our every match started to feel like one, whenever we met. But you were like rays of sun I wanted to chase then, or always, I wanted to grab with my own hands. I didn’t, I couldn’t and so it began,” Rafa purrs to quivering skin of Nick’s back, sensing the movement of his muscles, no marks on his ass just yet (no lines of their prologue clearly visible just yet). The strings have not been pulled for a long time, a symbol of his tennis not being revived.

Rafa brims with growing strength, though. Like after the first good serve. Like after testing the surface, and ball’s trajectory, getting first points and becoming more and more adapted to the place.

It’s addictive, it makes him want to play another ball and another.

So the second hit comes, even stronger and more confident now, to which Nick becomes that taunt bow, hands on the glass surface digging into it, leaving ghosts of fingerprints, muffled whimpers turning into mist there, maybe revealing hidden messages ( _stop, this is not the way, this is not healing_ ). Rafa doesn’t see, doesn’t hear, if there are any. Rafa feels himself becoming anew, with the handle fitting perfectly well to his fist and the strikes meeting Nick’s skin like perfectly manufactured shots.

“Rome,” Nick sounds like a devotee and Rafa feels like he’s deliverance for them both.

“I’ve always wanted to see you drenched in clay. I started to think about you covered in it and I worship you like you are my trophy, Nick. I wanted to win _you_ in this surface, rather than the surface,” another ghost of a kiss on Nick’s nape, when he’s bowing forward, pushing himself more towards this closeness, skin taunt, warm and maybe already growing wet. It tastes like ambrosia, but Rafa doesn’t touch him just yet.

The hits come meticulously prepared and measured in strength, like his service game always was. He doesn’t let the frame meet Nick’s body but the sound of strings slapping that reddening surface is enough to make him remember all the flashes of the memories, coded in smells and in sounds, now unlocked and pouring out inside of him, spreading with heat, making him hard and longing.

There’s a voice at the back of his head whispering like continuing that prayer how fucked up this is but he can’t hear, he can’t listen to it.

Nick’s skin grows red and marked now with tattoos of the strings, a whole chapters of their story in writing. Rafa’s legacy. He’s sweating and rocking himself against any point of contact. Rafa lets the frame trail down his spine to the cleft of his ass in between slaps, to see him respond so beautifully, bending to the rules of the games Rafa set, like on the court, like he often did in their games. Nick’s voice sounds ruined, when he recites.

“Madrid.”

“You made me try, you made me fight for it extra hard, you made me feel like I almost won you and could have you, right there, on that surface, red and willing and mine. Sun in my hands.”

“Cincinnati.”

“I chased you, you taunted me, you were red and I didn’t see anything but you bending to my will. But you slipped in between my fingers. I couldn’t stop thinking about the next time.”

Nick’s bucking now on trembling legs, hands slipping down the surface, leaving wet trails from sweat covering his skin. He is red now, too. He is marked.

_Here it shall be written you are mine. In sickness and in health._

Rafa touches him. First touch of his hand on his shoulder blades makes Nick jump, like softness hurts more than the strikes do. Rafa touches him like he’s fixing him, or fixing them, like he’s asking for forgiveness or reassurance, like he’s blessing him with one? He strokes his buttocks, not sensually, it’s about care, it’s about pleading, it’s about asking for absolution.

It’s almost religious, when his hand is joined by his mouth whispering to Nick’s damp hair “Estamos bien, estaremos bien, está bien, está todo bien, mi sol.”

Besseching, mumbling, a prayer or an enchament.

“Beijing.”

Cried, like during rallies, like giving his all, and making Rafa throw all at him. So he does.

“I think I knew then. The first time that I did. That I have the power to break you because you want me to chase you, you want me to win you. You _want_ me, and it’s making you defenseless. “

Nick’s moaning now. His name somewhere there, in between the incoherent sounds and the names he’s giving to chapters of their story. Rafa dares to look into the glass to his reflection there, his hand caressing reddened skin, his mouth hushing him, mouthing it into his nape, behind his earlobe.

Nick’s eyes are shut (there will be no judgment, there will be no condemnation). But Rafa thinks, he’s sure he sees trails of tears on his cheek, too.

Baptism. Allowance for them. He wants to turn him around and kiss the tears away. He wants to go down to his knees and pay the tribute. But not yet. Not yet. He still doesn’t let the voices out of the cage. The surge of power inside him, with that instrument of salvation in his hand, helping him remember when he was strong and invincible, helping him remember when he had a body that could achieve the impossible, that could feel untouchable (because unbreakable) blinds him now.

“Shhh, mi luz, we’re almost there.”

Rafa pretends. Rafa lies. Because what is _there_? Will they find a way back from _there_? If _there_ is the endless chasm over the edge.

He continues to lie to himself that every hit feels like that elusive _then_. When he was dictating the rules, when he felt like himself the most, knowing every inch of his own body, reigning over it, being in it limitlessly. Now his body has control over him as he’s falling to pieces every day.

The sound echoes with Nick’s mewls. The way Nick responds is like he would on court, anticipate Rafa’s shots, one step ahead, perfect chase and catch game they were playing back then and Rafa is recreating for them now.

“Acapulco.”

“I knew then that your anger is your defenselessness and your want is my fire. Losing to you always gave me that extra boost, made me adapt, grow, stronger, more creative. Made me want to chase you so much. But you were hiding behind your fury that was fear of being helpless against me, were you, Nick?”

Rafa’s openly kissing his back now. Open-mouthed adoration, like he’s offering forgiveness, or asking for one, or both. Seeking medication in the taste of Nick’s sweat. Or christening them both.

_Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil._

Nick shudders under his lips, leans closer to the touch, bends backward for him and Rafa obliges him, tasting salt of his tears now on the crook of his neck. His name on Nick’s mouth sounds like an anthem, he wants to know how it feels on his tongue. But he doesn’t. After earned good game, comes solace. But only for a moment. They are halfway there. ( _What is there, Rafael? Do you even know? Damnation or salvation, or can it be both?_ ) The voices persist. He snarls at them inside. Keeps them locked in the cage. And speaks out loud his enticing chanting.

“Shhhh, eres tan bueno, tan bueno, cariño. Hermoso. Perfecto. Mío,” still Rafa gets high on Nick’s submission, gets high on the closeness of their mouths almost touching. His hand palms his ass, touches badges of honour there (markings of healing) with reverence. Nick’s skin is scorching hot. Red. Red. Red. Rafa can sense it on his fingers. Doesn’t have to see it. And it stirs snarls of pure want in him. The bull stomping. The bull charging to win the game of chase.

The hits feel victorious. He knows the surface by heart now. Knows exactly where to aim the ball, how to set the traps, how to break and bend the opponent to his will. It’s effortless, now. He’s on the winning streak.

He grunts, feverishly over the next strike.

“Wimbledon.”

Nick almost curls into himself now, releasing shuddery sob around the name of the next chapter (or a next station of their cross), hips moving helplessly, like seeking release.

“You thought you were free. You thought you know your defenses, si? But you didn’t. Because you only wanted to run if you knew I will chase you. And I did. And then I caught you. Again. A sunstorm. You wanted this so much you hated me.”

Nick’s rocking now obscenely, demanding more, desperate for more, tears on his face, lips bitten, coated with blood (he’s red, he’s Rafa’s, Rafa’s, Rafa’s to have), skin shining with sweat, skin like licked by Rafa’s fire (writing on the wall that heralds their deliverance). Rafa grips the handle more, warrior of justice, his body merged with the racket like they are a weapon. Weapon of deliverance indeed. (Like he used to be).

Another strike makes them closer to it.

“Indian Wells.”

“I started playing you like it’s our last time. And like I couldn’t let you go. Because I couldn’t.”

Nick’s scratching the glass surface now, like struggling not to touch himself, his body shaking and spasming, like Rafa’s performing an exorcism on them. Because he is, isn’t he? That’s how healing works. He refuses to, even if Rafa didn’t forbid him. Like it’s a challenge for him. Like it’s not about coming. Because what they’re doing is not physical. Is not sexual. It’s a cleansing ritual and Nick takes the role of the healer onto himself. Takes Rafa’s pain, his suffering, his hatred, anger and shame and lets Rafa baptize him in all of this and lets Rafa baptize himself. So that they could be reborn. So that they could mend and live.

There’s bitter bile stuck in Rafa’s throat. As if the voices he kept trapped broke free and threaten to choke him now. White noise unrecognizable in his head, apart from single shapes: _stop, no, before it’s too late._

But they are way past this point. _Go directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200_. The chasm is the only way ahead now.

The hitting becomes faster, stronger, relentless, like Rafa’s body would (could, he feels like it can, with a racket merged with his hand now, like a conductor on the arena bringing the crowd to its knees). When finishing points, when getting closer to the finish line, when having a match point. (When grounding Nick’s body coming down from this high).

“Paris.”

Nick chokes on it, his neck begging to be marked too (it’s where an epilogue should go) as he’s tilting his body impossibly backwards, almost rubbing himself against the cabinet (painting his picture there, too. Their stained glass at this shrine) seeking more, that release for himself, that salvation for them.

“It felt like I almost had this, again. Like I could. Because I had you. I caught you. And you stopped being angry. You stopped running. Like you accepted that you want to be mine. I felt like I could go on forever, with you, like that.”

Nick’s mumbling his name, mingled with _yes, fuck yes,_ like he’s almost lamenting _your kingdom come, your will be done_ and his hands now turn to fists, because he won’t touch himself, this punishment, this cleansing he wants to embrace in lent and like a true devotee.

The final stroke feels like a winning ace in his hand and the frame does catch on Nick’s skin in that moment (like it’s their damnation like it’s their salvation) and Nick’s wailing now, spurting onto the glass, the markings from this gospel shall mark this place and shall be tattooed on this skin, as well. He can barely catch a breath when Rafa demands.

“Say it, Nick. One last time,” feeling himself stretched so much, light in body and soaring. Like he always did after every match won.

“Wimbledon,” Nick whimpers, hands gliding down the surface, his body giving up on him as he crumbles to the heap of sweat, tears and sacrificial submission by Rafa’s feet. Shaking and gasping.

The silence stretches. Even if Rafa has the lines to say. Even if Rafa is the one to conclude this sermon. The rush of power in him slowly dwindles, the handle in his hand feels too big, too heavy, the pain in his body resurfaces as the only valid reminder that he has body at all, when he says, hollow and defeated.

“In the end it didn’t even feel like the game is over. We were in a draw. No one won. The catch and chase game continued. Until it didn’t. Until now, until now, until now, please, until now,” he repeats, letting the racket go, letting it hit the ground with an empty thud (that seems to echo, that sounds like execution smash, too). He mumbles like he’s bargaining with someone, with himself, with Nick with anyone who would listen.

“Do you feel like you won, Rafa? Do you feel like it’s over? Are we free? Are we good? Are we healed?” Nick’s on his knees, bent in an awkward position, coming round from this religious ecstasy they both pretended - to pain (the same pain Rafa’s filled with to the brink). Looking small, looking fragile, looking like a sacrificial lamb Rafa led to slaughter in his bargaining with God, with himself, with anyone. In his self-destroying grief.

The trophies behind the glass seem like silent witnesses. Judging, condemning, reminding him what his strength, what his control used to be about. How low did he sink to reclaim it? Dragging this boy with himself. With his trust. His devotion. His love. And so on this stained glass here in this temple it is now written with Nick’s fingerprints, the words he breathed out onto the surface, with his juices like that sacrificial blood of the lamb: _deliver us, deliver us, deliver us, deliver us._

Rafa follows Nick onto the ground. (Follows him into the chasm he dragged them to). And trying to touch him, like now he’s breakable, like now he’s the most fragile thing to be handled with care and delicacy, his hands shaking, like he’s rebuilding shattered glass, when he tries to hold onto him, he whispers, over and over again, “Lo siento, lo siento, por favor, perdóname, por favor,” a prayer for deliverance that does not come to them in the end. Not now. Not just yet.

@

Rafa doesn’t know how long they stay like that. How long Nick allows him to shelter him like that, how long since Rafa’s chanted apologies has turned to humming, like now he’s singing a lullaby to a child. (Or still anthems for deliverance).

Nick stirs under his hands, like a fluttering bird with broken wings, reminding itself how to fly. “I need, I have to go,” it sounds more definite, than just him leaving this place (this space of suffocation).

Rafa releases him, moves away from him, giving him space, realizing that maybe his touch brings pain now too. “Can you …,” his voice sounds used and broken, he clears his throat to try to regain it. “Can you walk?” the fact he feels the need to ask this question whips him with a hot iron rod (even his regular pain pales).

Nick throws him a gaze, false bravado and nonchalance he’s mastered so well when he comments. “Please, Raf. I’m not made of glass,” he could be practically flaunting, as he lifts himself up, feigning strength and balance. Rafa aches, because it’s for him. It’s his sacrificial lamb showing the unbending will to be slaughtered over and over again. He tries to touch his calves ( _I’m sorry_ ), looks at the marks he left ( _please_ ), thinks about kissing them with piety ( _forgive me_ ), but he doesn’t or Nick doesn’t let him. Nick’s moving, away, walking without a stumble (because he’s stronger than he looks and he too has carried his cross of pretences all his life), putting growing distance between them.

“I could carry you?” it’s him bargaining again, it’s him trying to buy forgiveness. Because he wouldn’t be able to do that. Not with his body crippled back to painful, festering wound.

Nick walking away, to collect his clothes and Nick snorting to himself not in contempt or not even amusement but bitter upset is all the confirmation he needs. He says it out loud, not to diminish Rafa. But to do the reality check for them both. “No, Rafa. You couldn’t.”

Watching him put on his clothes, move like on autopilot reminds Rafa of himself struggling through difficulty to stand, let alone dress himself, as the time progressed on tour and his body continued to crumble with it. He’s still on the floor, in a rightful position, where he should pay his tribute or make amends.

Nick heads for the door, to leave, to disappear, to keep them in that draw, in that unresolved cycle of tying up events, to keep Rafa alone in this chasm with his sins and his guilts and his struggles. As it should be, yes? Still, Rafa calls after him, dread inside numbing the pain, taking over with cold and hollow. “Nick?” as if he won’t see him again, as if their healing becomes illusive and there’s nothing but grief left.

Nick looks back at him, he stops, he waits, a moment that stretches into forever. Like he waited before like Rafa doesn’t know he will again. And he says, “It’s gonna be all right. It’s gonna be fine, Rafa,” like Rafa did before. Bargaining for the lost case.

Rafa’s left in this tomb of his own creation with trophies behind cold, stained glass like venire delivering the sentence.

_Abandonment in cowardice._

*

Rafa doesn’t sleep that night. He can’t close his eyes and face himself, the voices let out of the cage, accusing him. He would prefer to go into restless sleep, he usually does, where he’s chasing the impossible, gasping on thin air, catching nothing, finding himself in the chasm again. To lying stiff and cold and almost paralysed, like buried alive in that tomb of his. Because he is. This has been his life, hasn’t it.

He thinks he can hear noises at dawn. He aches for Nick. Wants to go to him. Wants to leave him alone. Wants to plead for forgiveness, wants to let him breathe, though (and he can’t do both, can he). He doesn’t. He stays in his grave, praying for release to come.

@

He breaks the morning routine. Instead of going to the gym he heads for the kitchen, led by guilt, crippling doubts and self-hatred, wanting to make amends, thinking he still can. He would normally buy them breakfast on his way back from jogging, Nick always in a rush in the morning, would grab something quickly on his way out to Academy and that was it. Fluid familiarity of bodies moving in one space. Routine shared. A life they could have together. Somehow. As it turned out they fit and know how. And even though Rafa buried this option it reemerged as something possible, something happening, something tangible.

So he thinks about making them breakfast. Pausing for a moment. Talking. Embracing the truth. Maybe, he’s ready. Maybe he can do it. Now. When it’s probably too late? Breakfast in bed, they had so very few with Mery, because he was never off court, not really, not even when he stayed at home and she was busy with the business, often already out of the house before he came back from the morning stretches. He thinks about living like that. With Nick. And it fits and it sends jolts of anticipation through his body, dulling the pain. And so he’s heading for the kitchen, head full of possibilities.

But he didn’t earn deliverance, yet. He doesn’t deserve it. Not after condemning them both. So when he finds the note on the kitchen counter, he wants to feel surprised, bitter, disappointed and aching. But he doesn’t. He knows that punishment is a double-edged sword and you can’t heal through it. You can only hurt. You can only destroy.

Nick has a messy writing but to see it on paper, to know he took the time, with all the technology in his life, being rushed or being lazy, affects Rafa more than the expected content of this note.

_Huh so I guess im really that governess in the end writing some letters and shit lol (I don’t think I ever wrote one in my life so hey this is kinda special haha)_

_(letters kinda suck too there are no emojis here boohoo)_

_yeah I didn’t wanna wake you ~~(haha false I didn’t wanna face you cos you said and I did 2 I don’t know how to say no to you Raf and I don’t I fucking don’t know how to do that)~~ i need to move out thanks for everything except for gym sessions lol don’t listen to me the gym sessions were pretty dang great and I told you then - kinda dreams coming true _

_~~I wish I wonder how it could be~~ _

_yeah but here I am moving out because im not what you need I’m not what you want and I cant help you like I want to like you need to I don’t wanna waste your time and your space Raf_

_I have a week to go and well kids are awesome and don’t wanna let them down Carlitoes and Sofia are good pft they’re ready 2 kick our asses but there’re other works in progress I started Maya’s really impatient and rushes the shots too much (haha #same) and Pedro really wants some tips on doubles game because he loves working in tandem and im like #dude I know (he’s also a comic books collector and has some rare issues so like hello I wanna see)_

_be staying at the Academy if u don’t mind (hey I’m the governess si? So that’s my end of the contract to fulfill anyway) and_

_I hope you’re gonna find what you’re looking for Raf_

_take care and thanks for everything bro_

It somehow feels like holding Nick’s heart in his palms (the way that he writes is exactly the same way he talks, with everything out in the open, messy, raw, true).

Only then the tears fall.

After anger comes sadness and reflection.

*

Rafa never stopped thinking about the months going by in terms of seasonal tournaments. It was always Melbourne to him in January, May was France, July was London and so it went and so his whole year was translated into tennis and his daily routines too. Even with his body disappearing, even with tennis becoming an echo of the past.

Now there’s a new agenda in his head, fueling this approach (or this faith or this devotion to the very essence of what his life really is about). And so now he thinks about grass season being in bloom (not May exploding with green and flowery scents). But this time it’s not about him, it’s not about him preparing for the tournaments that will never come for him. He thinks of Nick, having that prospect, after Roland Garros, going down this path straight to Rafa’s beloved kingdom of green grass, royal white and old traditions. Nick, showing them what he can, what he has, what he knows. Nick becoming who he proved himself being all along: a warrior, with iron forged in trials, relentless, focused, determined and so very strong. Rafa wants them to know this, to see this. Rafa wants Nick to know and see this, too.

He should pay the price, go back to his tomb, fester there in guilt and shame. But he doesn’t.

He starts by making phone calls to people at the Academy about that court of his (that cemetery of wasted chances, of buried opportunities). He doesn’t want it as a decaying wasteland. He doesn’t see it as such anymore. 

He goes back to watching tennis news without feeling like he’s about to suffocate on every name dropped, that rings with painful familiarity. He thinks about strategies for the rest of the season, assesses the opponents, evaluates the players that are in the game, in terms of weaknesses and threats and how to play both, how to win both. He’s not ready to touch a racket handle, for different reasons than before, now it reminds him how much he got lost, how much on the verge of destruction he was. But he doesn’t want to be alone when he does. Because he’s not thinking about picking up the mantle for himself anymore.

He even steps into that room. After last time, when he did the cleaning, like removing traces of evidence of what happened there, as if he could rewind time and fix it. The racket is mirror enough for these sins (it’s ironic, because it used to bring back different memories, now it’s about Nick and tennis merged into one, as it happened inside Rafa’s head, as it did in his heart). And he doesn’t want to forget. It’s what made him see and realize and know and want to pursue something else, than bitter, angry life in purgatory of punishment for everyone. He lets the air in, opens the window, lets the sun in.

It feels like this place regressed to being just a house and it’s dimmer, it’s more grey here now. Devoid of colours, buzz and vivid presence of Nick it feels like the sun stopped getting in. Rafa thinks about the sound of his dragging feet, as he comes downstairs, sleepy and disoriented, following the smell of the coffee from the coffee press Rafa holds in his hand with raised eyebrow and implied: _want one?? better hurry_. He thinks about all the rapping and singing going on in the shower and Rafa teasing him afterwards with _For a moment there I was gonna call the police. It sounded like you’re being murdered over there._ He remembers the smell of popcorn in the evening, Nick insists on making (to show off his spectacular cooking skills _so that you wouldn’t tell lies later on that I can’t cook or something_ ). Before he settles among the pillows he gathers from the entire sofa for himself ( _this wouldn’t happen if you just went on being my pillow, Raf_ ) ad picks another Netflix thing for them to watch (it’s usually horror films or shows which Nick spends the entire time sarcastically commenting, while still jumping at every scare and conveniently pretending he’s hugging a pillow, while using it as a blind not to watch some scenes). One night they go way past the time of watching and settling in for the night and Nick falls asleep on the fortress of pillows he created around himself. Rafa carries him to bed. He’s in pain, his body is his enemy, his body is a stranger, but the way Nick curls into a pile of limbs and snuggles closer to Rafa’s chest, mumbling something about _peanut butter_ and _zombie bunnies,_ his mouth in the crook of his neck, warm and soft and he looks so peaceful and innocent when Rafa moves to that nursery he’s staying in, like Nick really became the very symbol of a child they were supposed to have together that were to be healing, mending, bringing new hope, all of this makes him forget about the fatigue. Nick looks like he belongs there, in the covers, on the blanket, in that room, the room that were to be a new beginning and Rafa kisses his forehead goodbye as if he’s saying thank you for that, then.

He lets the sun in but there’s no replacement. This place goes back to being just house, until he starts finding traces of Nick being here and filling it up with light (and life). Rafa would say he misses the mess (that tornado presence) but he doesn’t have to. He finds one of the lost hoodies in the garage one day when he’s working on a bike, keeping his hands busy, training the focus and precision, too. There are earplugs on the shelf in a bathroom upstairs. Few pairs of socks drying out on the heater (Nick doing his own laundry makes Rafa soft and aching inside, one pair has little bulls on them and the affection bursting inside him feels like it reaches all the broken pieces of his body to fix them). There are few comic books beneath the bed, as if Nick was sometimes struggling with falling asleep, stayed up late and they slipped off the bed when he finally drowsed off. Rafa starts reading and doesn’t stop till late afternoon when Mery brings dinner and papers to fill in.

It’s him catching up on things he missed before. This is him making amends. This is him paying the price. Embracing what he lost, realizing how much it mattered when he had it.

He goes to the Academy. Yes, Mery needs him for final touches for the off season charity matches they are planning this year. But he also decides it’s time to include this step in his repenting for trapping everyone, but mostly himself, in that state of half—living. The children never deserved this. (Some of them signed up in hope of seeing him, being taught by him, sharing experiences with him and it never happened, because he was a ghost in this place, a legend only talked about as if he doesn’t really exist).

“I need you to sign here, here and here,” he’s in Mery’s office (the walls are covered with pictures from tour, his pictures, she’s still his biggest fan and it no longer makes him itchy, it no longer makes him want to escape this place right away). She lets him into her seat (that’s how it always worked with them, a complete mutuality and partnership at its finest) and perches on the edge of the desk, instructing him with all the red tape, as she always did.

He doesn’t even read the documents. He trusts her completely and he couldn’t be bothered with formalities at all. After some time of the office being filled with her soft guidance and scratches of a pen, he asks, seemingly casually.

“So, how are the kids?” it used to be a triggering question she would ask him and then stopped. After his body first stole tennis away from him, then his fertility. He’s saying the words now and he can breathe normally and his heart doesn’t hammer in his chest.

“It depends which kids you have in mind, Raf?” Mery’s grinning at him when he looks up from the papers, eyebrows raised. She knows him so well. She knows him like the back of her hand. She will always know his heart and she will always have his heart, too.

“All right. All right. How is Nick doing?” he puts the pen away and asks the proper question, even if he’s curious about the kids, too.

“Find out for yourself, if you’re done here,” Mery pets his hand with affection, picks up the stack of documents he has just finished with and heads for the cabinet to sort them out there, as if they’ve just had a casual exchange on the weather. Without looking at him she adds, mirth resonating in her voice. “He’s on court 5.”

@

Rafa’s breath catches at how bright Nick shines. Like he almost forgot. Like he almost didn’t see him for so long. It’s not only about Nick being Nick, wearing his sleeveless top, doing his trick shots full of flare but also making the game full of smiles and teases but challenges and magic. It’s not only about this sun presence he has. It’s about him on court, with a racket, making this sport fun, but competent, graceful, stunning and unique to watch.

There’s purpose in him. There’s wholeness. There’s serenity in realization when he watches him luminous and wondrous.

The children follow him like he’s the star in the galaxy. They are shouting things in Spanish, cheering and laughing out loud. It looks like they play doubles, except there are 5 people on each side of the clay court and absolutely no regular rules apply and for each made ball they are supposed to shout a name of the comic book character starting with the letter given by the shot maker.

Rafa chuckles to himself, feeling light and warm inside, upon suddenly remembering so very vividly what sun feels like on his skin after hiding inside that tomb of his creation.

Nick sees him, then, struggling with his phone (he was always terrible at using media side of his mobile, browsing through new models of bikes was his forte), when he’s searching for a video function, trying to set the camera ready, pointing it the wrong way at the court. 

“Excuse me, mister, but this area is off limits. Very secret strategy is happening here, right-o fellow soldiers?” Nick shouts from the middle of court, exaggerating his serious voice and saluting the children. And the children now all look at the newcomer, gaping, with disbelief, growing into awe, and maybe even a tad of intimidation. 

“Bueno, bueno. Me atrapaste. Soy un espía, estoy aquí para robar tus trucos y ganar mis partidos,” ( _You caught me. I’m a spy, here to steal your tricks and to win my matches_ ) Rafa shrugs, eyebrow raised unapologetically, feeling a tremor of panic at the group of kids staring more and more feverishly at him, some of them look ready to pounce, others are gulping like intimidated. God. He doesn’t remember the last time he went here and interacted. It seems ages ago, since he started to hide with himself everywhere he was and there was tennis too. As if the children were to blame, too. As if this place became nothing but a cruel reminder of his inabilities. There’s anxiety growing over feeling guilty, over these children feeling nothing but disappointment with great legend of Rafael Nadal finally gracing them with his presence. Particularly, tennis wise. What if they ask him to play? He is not ready (he won’t get ready alone). His hands are clammy, all of a sudden, like before the first matches, before he learned to steel his focus.

And so the moment of the truth comes. Some of the kids are indeed rushing to him with buzzing excitement, repeating _Rafa, Rafa,_ alternatively _Señor Rafa_ or _Señor Nadal_ in different shades of enthusiasm, other stay behind by Nick’s side, full of disbelief and maybe tremor of fear, like maybe they are seeing a ghost ( _not anymore_ , Rafa hopes). The kids swarming him, get on the stands without preamble and drag him by the hand right on court as feared or expected or both. The sound of his shoes on clay spreads with anticipation mingled with longing, his breath catches but he steels himself into composure. That beloved sliding sound, that colour already painting his shoes sunset red. He feels like he almost drowned once and is now being pulled into water again because he needs to catch the last rays of sun on the surface. Nick’s there. Nick’s waiting. Nick did wait for him. Maybe it’s not all lost.

The kids are shouting over each other in Spanish, while pulling him to the net (like for a coin toss, like for the beginning, the first chapter, the prematch preparation). “Sir Nadal, come, come and see what Nick taught us.”

He laughs and it’s full of relief, affection and pride at that. _What Nick taught them._ He ridiculously assumed there are going to be expectation pressuring him of these children still worshipping this legend, when the legend is now what the legend is supposed to be, a page in the history book to read about, to think about to maybe get inspired by, but the true role models live among them now and they are tangible, there for them and real. It’s no longer something bitter to choke on. It’s something organic and inevitable. He could never let go of tennis, and he will still struggle with knowing how. But what stopped him from growing, from moving on, from accepting and healing was not being able to let go of meaning something out there, of the status, of the actions following words and titles (he was so used to working hard and earning what he had). He felt meaningless, because he felt powerless. But now seeing these kids shout to him with gleaming eyes about Nick and his magic tricks and the fun they were having and improvement they were making, brings him closer to the realization that maybe there are other idols to follow and maybe he did his job and earned his share and found his place in history and maybe it’s time to enjoy this, too.

“Nick taught you, you say?” he says in English, to children jumping all around them but mostly to Nick, in teasing tone, lacing with pride, as well.

Nick’s stroking his thick mop of hair in response, as if not used to praises. Because _not used_ to praises most probably. “Yeah, well, they are very teachable.” The racket in his hand reflects the sun as he’s twirling it and tempering with it, like he always did during any still moments in the game. Rafa remembers. Rafa misses it but Rafa now knows how to admire it, too. So he does. Looking at Nick with all the palette of emotions brimming inside him: pride, relief, gratitude and affection.

Rafa says, “Or maybe they just have a really good teacher,” to which Nick looks away, abashed, waving his hand like he wants to brush it aside as something not true or excessive. Some of the kids are dancing around them, others went back to playing the ball over the net and some are still staring, eyes shining with glee mingled with disillusion. “Am I right? Who’s the best teacher here?” Rafa now asks the children in Spanish and they instantly respond in unison, making a circle around Nick and chanting his name with rackets raised in triumph like it’s some kind of anointing ritual.

Rafa laughs to Nick smiling with his entire face (his eyes seem golden in the grass season sun and lit up with carefree and boyishness he emanates here, with kids, always), even though he continues to blush and mumble things like. “Geez, you’re not getting any free passes, you know, stop buttering it up.”

“Will you show me some of your magic tricks, then?” Rafa throws another question at the giddy crowd in Spanish to children hollering with various versions of _yes_. And then he turns to Nick in English, again, like he’s asking for permission. “So, can I sneak peeks at some of that secret strategy of yours and maybe learn a thing or two?”

Nick looks back, his face an open book of emotions, as it always is: incredulity but hope, excitement but a shadow of a doubt, _are you serious_ but _please, I’ve waited for you._ What he says out loud is teasing but thrilled. “Only if you promise to keep it to yourself. It’s all top secret, you know, future Olympic champions training here.”

Rafa puts his hand on his chest, where his heart is now beating wildly, like it forgot how to and reclaimed the ability anew and confesses, serious and solemn, like he’s promising something else, like he’s talking about something else. “My word is my bond, Nick.”

Nick maybe catches on the meaning, he stalls, not breaking eye contact, hope visibly shining in his eyes but then he sprints to gather the kids around himself with encouraging chants. “All right, let’s get this party started, my padawans.”

@

Rafa stays for the entire doubles (or triples really) match. They change each other all the time, so that everyone can play, so that everyone can shine. Nick knows them all by name, knows exactly what to say to each of them. There’s a flare to this tennis, there’s competence, too. There’s fun and dedication. Everything Nick had in himself but now perfectly balanced, making these children burst with so much love for this sport. It all came from Nick, because he’s exuding it in abundance. As long as he has someone to share his tennis with he’s going to be this: all heart and passion and smiles and sun. The hope for the future blossoms in him along with grass season green around them. He is looking at it. And he almost missed it. He almost let it slip through his fingers.

Nick’s rushing to him now, sweaty, cheeks red, lips smiling, bright eyes, hair a mess of unruly locks. He’s left the kids to some post match relaxation games and he’s by the stands now, the picture of youth, energy, sanguinity. He’s so young. So eager. So open. Rafa feels like when he was holding that letter, reading its content, like holding that soft, beating heart in his palms. Nick’s babbling now, leaning over the barrier, enthusiasm coming off him in waves.

“So, have you seen Carlitos? His service game is aces – pun intended. Like some other Spaniards from this place actually, he practically made second serve his biggest weapon. It’s a rocket. It’s crazy good, like the confidence of this little guy, he’s amazing. And Sofia finishes the points by the net with slide shots worthy of gold medal. I am jealous. Like, teach me, girl, I ask her and she says I’m estúpido me enseñaste eso,” Nick butchers the accent in his eager rant but still makes Rafa catch his smile and snort particularly loudly to all of that. God. He wants to kiss Nick. Hold Nick. And never let him go.

He says, instead, to see more of that blushing, more of that abashed smile. “Hmm, I remember only one person on tour serving all the bull’s-eyes and doing passing shots out of this world. He’s very tall, slouches a lot and hates cardio. He says he hates tennis, but then he won Roland Garros like it’s nothing, so I don’t even know what’s up with this guy.”

“Haha, Jokester Rafa strikes back again. You’re not the Empire, Raf, so quit it,” abashed smile is on full display and Rafa drinks it up, like he’s been stuck on a desert all that time.

“Huh?” he doesn’t really mind not getting half of the hints Nick speaks to him in. Even if they tried to catch up on with pop culture together. Even if Rafa kept the comics Nick left behind and read them, completely engrossed.

“Bro, _Star Wars_? The only trilogy that matters and the ultimate film of the franchise?” Nick feigns offence, but his eyes softly trace Rafa’s face, like he’s greedy for that expression there, too. Affectionate confusion, most probably.

“We didn’t get to Star Wars, nene, because you tortured me with horror films you haven’t even watched yourself from behind that pillow.”

“Pft. Sure I did. I watched everything,” Nick flaunts his chest, smile never leaving his face.

“Sure, sure,” and Rafa continues to beam at him, too and it’s all becoming really ridiculous until the ball swishes between them with kids rapidly apologizing in Spanish as the post-match games turned heated and overenergised, apparently.

“You know, it’s not too late for you to catch up on Star Wars, Señor Nadal,” Nick’s leaning on the barrier of the stands, like that pull between them draws him closer. The title sounds provocative in his mouth but there’s mirth there, still, an aftermath of him shining bright like the sun among the kids.

There’s also a tad of urgency in a way he watches Rafa. Like maybe he’s not talking about just watching films together. Like maybe he’s telling him that he still has faith. That he’s still waiting. ( _I don’t know how to say no to you_ is _I will be waiting for you till you’re ready_.)

“Hmm, I don’t think it is too late for that and many other things, Nick. I hope,” Rafa gets himself closer, so that their hands are almost brushing. He sees himself in Nick’s eyes and he’s never felt more physical, more visible, more alive.

Rafa’s tired of his _almosts_. Of theirs. He’s risking the suggestion. “You left some things back home,” he deliberately uses the word _home_ , too.

Nick smirks. “Hmm, like any self-respecting governess I shall send my chaperon to collect them, Sir,” the distance between them is so small Rafa can see freckles on his nose. He never noticed before. He saw him in so many states of complete vulnerability, mapped his entire body, saw him respond and lay himself bare with everything he is and has for Rafa. But he never noticed freckles on his nose, the way his eyes crease when he smiles, making his face beam so much more (and his eyes turn such warm, lovely shade of amber).

He was so blind. He almost missed it. Missed them.

He confesses with all the implications.

“I don’t mind, Nick. It feels like they’ve always been there, anyway,” poignant and loaded.

“Hoodie in the garage? Okay?” playful but giddy.

“Your socks with bulls might be my favourite.”

“I know. They rock,” Nick grins, embracing the fact of being exposed. He never hides. He’s never had. That’s why Rafa chases him now even more than before. To fully let in the light and the side of the living. To let in Nick, really. Nick adds, his pinkie nudging Rafa’s palm. “I should buy you a matching pair with kangaroos for Christmas,” Nick gasps after realizing how it came out, taking his hands away from the barrier and wiping them nervously on his shorts.

“Deal,” Rafa instantly chimes in, almost reaching out with his hands, to bring Nick back, closer, to the light, to himself, to them. So that he could realise and he know Rafa _is_ thinking about the future. No longer a prisoner of the purgatory of the past.

“Another bet, Señor Nadal? We have a whole list going. Careful, since I lost the last one I might get too competitive and want to win the next one way too much,” he’s back to teasing but not close enough to touch. Rafa coaxes him in.

“Good. That’s the idea. And by the way, my gym misses your complaints, Nick,” smiling crookedly, knowing perfectly well which baits to use to lure Nick closer, but no longer wanting to abuse it (and exploit his willingness to give in to them). They still need time. Nick now deserves space. The growth happens when you let the air in, when you let the light in, too. Rafa’s slowly, inevitably doing his share, making amends. But in chasing that freedom he hurt Nick, so now he owes him room to breathe, to remind himself what does it mean to want to say _yes_ not being incapable of saying _no_.

He needs Nick to know that he repents. He needs Nick to know how much he wants him back. Nick showed him that not being able to do tennis, doesn’t mean he can’t have it in his life, as meaningful, as fulfilling. He wrote his pages in the history books now it’s time for the future.

Nick’s smile at him now reminds Rafa first sunrays of the dawn and how much closer to symbolism of the future this can be?

“Does it?” Nick gets himself closer, fingers shyly perched on the edge of the barrier, close to Rafa’s when he seeks deeper meaning. Confirmation. “Does it mean you’re back, Raf?” Like he desperately wants to trust. Like he wants to say “yes” because he can and is allowed to. Not because he’s a pawn of the game and lured in by selfish manipulation.

“I’m trying, I want to. I hope so,” he’s putting his hand on Nick’s fingers, covering his skin with his, a promise spoken out loud, a promise declared in gesture, too. “And my gym sessions are always open for complaining grumps.”

Nick watches their hands joined. Rafa, not rejected, starts to stroke each finger with tenderness, lifting Nick’s palm up and lacing their fingers. They never held hands. Such a simple gesture and it means so much, it covers so much. Nick stutters, his face’s growing red and his eyes shine like stars on the night’s sky when he looks up at Rafa with overwhelming wave of hope there. “Uhm, I’m kinda in the middle of this training routine with Mery now but I’ll get back to you on that, very much, I mean, very likely, I mean, for sure,” and him stumbling over words while stealing glances and their joined hands fills Rafa with the softest feeling. Like he can feel whole again. Like he maybe already does. 

“Training with Mery? This is something I would rather watch than your horror movies, Nick,” Rafa chuckles, surprised and curious and knowing he won’t get any details from Mery and apparently from Nick, either, as he says.

“Yeah, well. This is another top secret operation, Señor Nadal but maybe you won’t be kept in the dark about it for long,” that teasing quality to Nick’s smirk does so many things to his already absolutely distracting lips that even Rafa’s patient resolve cracks and crumbles and he realizes that he doesn’t know the taste of them and doesn’t want to go on with his day without knowing the taste of them.

What he does instead is leans forward (bows for Nick, makes amends, pays him tribute) and kisses both of his palms, lingering with his mouth, like breathing in the strength, the skills, the competence of a professional tennis player Nick’s grown into in front of his eyes. Adoring. Respectful. Nick gasps out loud. It’s so disarming, how responsive he is, how his heart is out in the open with everything he feels. The softness inside Rafa grows, blossoms, like grass season flowers. He murmurs, still in that bent position, looking up, like showing this admiration with his body, too. “Good. Because I don’t want to be in the dark anymore, Nick.”

Nick has only stunted and gaping. “Fuck me,” to say to that. Rafa deduces as an actual exclamation of being floored (considering he’s blushing and his lips are parted in shock and he’s blinking furiously, with his palms extra sweaty and warm in Rafa’s grip, an open book with every page printed richly with so many shades of narration to decipher) not expressing wants (not yet, they are getting there, hopefully).

And then the choir of kids interrupts them, singing awfully off tune into their rackets:

_When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie_  
_That's amore_  
_When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine_  
_That's amore_

Nick breaks the connection, flushed with attention, eyes glossy, lips moist, looking so beautiful Rafa doesn’t understand how he could not see. How he did not see before. (He did. He could. That’s why he was drawn to this boy. Because this boy has always been the healing sun and grass season flowers in bloom).

“Some English lessons you’ve been giving them, Nick,” Rafa laughs.

“They know English, cheeky buggers, they just pretend when convenient not to,” Nick scratches his head, smiling, still glowing like a daybreaker (because he is. After the long night.)

“Just like you with tennis, huh?” Rafa nudges him playfully and Nick makes a face at him that’s probably a definite statement on what are Nick’s feelings towards sarcastic, witty Rafa calling him out on many truths.

“I’ll be seeing you around, si?” loaded with meaning, as Rafa salutes.

“I hope so?” caught up with the meaning, as Nick runs to giggling kids to resume their lesson.

*

He goes back to the house that is not home for the time being but doesn’t shut the door on the light and hope regained. He manages the works on court, to bring it back to living state. He watches grass season preparations, and preWimbledon matches, collecting strategy tips. He trains at the gym, still mostly keeping the body in shape. He doesn’t want to hold the racket without Nick there, to challenge him, to ground him in a purpose of it all. And he drives his bike to the Academy, no longer just to handle red tape. Not ready yet to start teaching. But keeping his distance, observing, everyone else involved. Watching them play tennis doesn’t break the tame of denial inside him to be swallowed by bitterness. There is no tame to break anymore. There is growing acceptance in him. He can no longer reign supreme on court. He can no longer triumph and conquer. But tennis never really left. It can’t leave. It’s in his blood system. Not a virus consuming his will to live. But a part of his heart and he can share his love differently. He will.

He passes Nick occasionally, on the corridors when he tries to involve Rafa in a handshake ritual that somehow always ends up with them bumping noses or foreheads with fingers almost twisted. “And she says I can do it?” Nick mumbles to himself after that to Rafa’s complete bewilderment. Rafa proceeds to kissing his forehead, murmuring, “This is a bro handshake in Spain, chiquito,” leaving Nick dazed. (Never a dull moment with this one). Over the glass, when they wave at each other, sometimes tentatively, other times Nick makes faces to children tumbling on court in laughter and Rafa shaking his head with the brightest smile on his face. When he’s discussing plans for the off-season with Carlos on neighbouring stands and gets distracted by a rally Nick is currently engaged in with some of the older kids, giving his all, gliding so gracefully, covering the court with swift efficiency and “Hello? Anyone’s home?” Carlos pokes his head jokingly, his eyes warm and approving because what he can probably mostly see is Rafa being surrounded by tennis, letting himself be surrounded by tennis because letting the tennis in again. And in a way he does. Through Nick, exactly. Sometimes on his way to the office (because the pile of documents is always there to deal with) he brings him coffee to Nick gasping scandalized. “Not a salad? That’s outrageous!” And Rafa leans closer with a promise shared like a dirty secret. “There’s hot chocolate at home, mi luz,” an open invitation, a reminder. It’s now Rafa who’s waiting.

And then, one day, when it’s way past the schedule, and the park is slowly emptying out, with only the staff staying behind to wrap up with the papers, equipment or next day’s charts he’s locking up Mery’s office (she’s finished earlier to attend to family matters, he didn’t ask, they are business partners, they are still married because divorce is an inconvenience, but some parts of their lives grow separately now and no one minds) he hears the music echo.

He follows the beat as it’s getting more distinguishable. It’s familiar. Rafa recognizes the cadence. Rhythmical but sensual, gliding and swaying but swift and graceful, too.

Bachata.

Their wedding dance with Mery.

He remembers practicing the moves weeks before the event. Mery wanted it to be perfect but something didn’t click. They were both amazing dancers (perks of being Spanish as it never impressed anyone really, because that was just a skill you had by default) and during family parties or just at the club visits with friends for birthdays or baby showers or bachelor’s parties they matched so well together. When there was no pressure, when it was organic, just them, outside this regime Rafa’s life had turned into. High school sweethearts, getting lost in each other, in that first taste of the kiss, in that intimate embrace, in body fitting so well in every angle like you are made for each other.

And then it came to bachata and there was pragmatism and efficiency in their movements. There was perfect precision, there. Following the rules, fitting into frames. Anticipating each other perfectly but to the point of the whole routine becoming repetitive, predictable and not impulsive enough. Mery was frustrated, because she wanted it to be fireworks. He calmed her down by explaining that being methodical had always worked out for him on court (until it didn’t, until he had to spice it up, juggle techniques and become spontaneous, creative and surprising in order to stay in the race with the youngsters that started to slowly take over with their impetuousness) and maybe it’s just the fact that they have grown into this well-matched partnership that’s mirroring in a way they dance now and it’s not a bad thing, it’s a well-organised thing and it’s one of the reasons they are getting married, si? He kissed her mouth, short, reassuring peck (now he thinks even in this physicality it’s been bleeding out, they loved each other so much but they no longer wanted each other) and she smiled at him over her shoulder, silently accepting this explanation, already rushing out for the meeting with the florist.

The rhythm leads him to one of the small gyms for the staff use. He peers inside through the glass walls built in there and sees Nick. Wearing his black tights, light blue sleeveless and converse with bare ankles somehow leaving Rafa more transfixed than the fact Nick is dancing. There’s so much going on behind this glass, Rafa can’t process all the details at once, so he focuses on the ankles (Rafa saw him completely naked and raw for him, exposed with everything, absolutely everything and yet that flash of skin there, not even the fact his shoulders are revealed, broad, fit, strong shoulders, he’s been working on lately, makes his throat go dry, huh). The focus expands now and Rafa takes in more and more of the spectacle before him.

His whole posture is as straight as Rafa’s seen it, his feet raised slightly for the basic moves to the left and to the right, the movement of his legs light and smooth and very graceful. God. Rafa stares. His legs stretch and stretch, long and lean and he explored his body on all possible ways and yet he didn’t. He doesn’t know how these lips taste, he doesn’t know how these legs feel wrapped around him, strong but pliant and submissive, too. The drum beat builds and with it there’s just the right amount of sway to Nick’s hips added and his hands paint the rhythm, too, like he’s a ballet dancer but there are traces of hip hop in his soul, too. As the song progresses, his body becomes more and more engaged. The hips swaying turns to whole body arching, there are slides and turns, too, and forward and backward motion, like music slips into him, more, deeper and he’s letting it take over, he’s letting it mould his body like Rafa’s hands used to and like tennis does.

God. Watching him move, so light but with purpose, easy and charming dexterity, there, but also confidence brimming with hungry sensuality, makes Rafa realize that Nick’s tennis is like bachata. There’s playfulness there. There’s dare and tenacity. Courage and vulnerability. Passion and impulsiveness. You start with the frames, with the basics, with the safe moves. But you challenge them all the time, and with it you challenge your partner (your opponent). The music, the rhythm makes you want to reach out for more, dig deeper, let yourself go, explore and try out. Just like the adrenaline does on court. If you only follow the essentials, you will fall into routine, pragmatism, robbed of spark, passion and fuel. It’s about opening yourself up and taking a risk, plunging into this unrestrained instinct in you, pushing you further, deeper, more.

This is what Nick is doing now and Rafa breathes in awe. He’s thrusting now, body spasming, seeking, needing to share the thrill, the fuse to this fire. Rafa’s skin tingles, like pulled by a charge in the air, by a thread between them making him want to follow, meet the thrusts, the spasms, embrace the boldness of his, get intoxicated on this dare, be consumed by this fire they share. This is what Nick is doing on court, too and Rafa always wanted to follow and did follow. Modifying his game, making it swifter, quicker, smarter, more creative, because there was always a challenge waiting for him on the opposite side of the net that Nick offered.

Along with the spark.

Along with that gravity. That makes Rafa move now, move closer to him, to feel him, to be in this moment with him, to share himself with him.

This is what bachata is about above all. And this is what they were missing with Mery.

Yearning.

That pull that makes you want to follow and get lost, completely lost in each other. Electricity and want. To try harder, to do more, to go deeper, to be beyond for this person because they raise you up like that, they stimulate you, provoke you, inspire you.

_Not tryna be indie_

_Not tryna be cool_

_Just tryna be in this_

_Tell me how you choose_

_Can you feel why you're in this_

_Can you feel it through_

_All of the windows_

_Inside this room_

Nick’s turned to the entrance, swaying slowly, calling out, soft but needy. Waiting, hoping, believing. Rafa’s meets him from behind. Warm body he collides with jolts a little bit, upon meeting an obstacle but then his head tilts slightly and Nick inhales and he exhales, as if the smell of Rafa he knows and recognizes fills him up with sureness and comfort. Familiarity but not routine. Trust but not predictability. Rafa’s hands are on Nick’s hips and with legs bent in knees he’s moving them now, undulating moves, slow and sensual, building. It’s Rafa’s answer, it’s him responding to the call, telling Nick, he’s here and he wants just as much. And he’s not letting him go now.

_'Cause I wanna touch you, baby_

_And I wanna feel you, too_

_I wanna see the sunrise and your sins_

_Just me and you_

_Light it up, on the run_

_Let's make love, tonight_

_Make it up, fall in love, try_

He turns Nick around, so that they are facing each other now, without putting distance between them. There’s pliant calm on Nick’s face that disarms Rafa completely. Not his: _I don’t know how to say no to you_. It’s: _I want you, I always want to give in and I’m so glad you caught up_. Rafa pushes his legs apart to have the plea answer in body, too. Who lets who in, really? There’s togetherness to their bodies in a way they are merged now. Nick’s arms envelope him whole and he’s leaning on Rafa’s thigh – grounded, safe, secured. There’s trust, there’s comfort there. _I’ve got you. I’m here. I know now. I’m yours._ Shared. Mirrored. Their forehands touch and warm breath between them passes like a ghost of the words unspoken, sung out and spelled in physicality. Like kisses of confirmation. They lean together, to the front, to the back, with hips rotating, to the tempo increasing.

_I 'll hold you when things go wrong_

_I'll be with you from dusk till dawn_

_I'll be with you from dusk till dawn_

_Baby, I'm right here_

Now, when they’ve made their promises, they let loose. Hands holding, bodies never moving too far to break the familiarity of skins longing for each other they give in to dare, to spark, to carefree of passion this dance is about. They slide in sync, there’s turning and twisting. There’s complete trust in challenge and support in every move they wring from each other. There’s always coming back to closeness, with noses nuzzling and smiles felt on mouths almost touching. Rafa lets Nick lure him in, taunt him, provoke him with teasing groping and sensual mapping of thighs or the small of his back, lower and lower. And then Rafa pulls him in to let him see, feel, find out for himself how much it does affect him, how completely he’s seduced.

The music fills them up, but Rafa hears Nick’s relieved chuckle whenever they anticipate the moves and echo each other smoothly (like they do on court). Rafa can taste the saltiness of his sweat when he’s mouthing wordless promises, apologies, confessions to the crook of his neck, hips merged again, rocking unchaste, inevitable, locked tight and warm together. There are playful gestures between them, too. Of lovers. Of friends. Of partners. Like they’ve been doing this for a while now. Known each other bodies for a while now. Felt this connection and intimacy that’s in their bones, under their skins, responsive so organically now. Nick’s fingers playing with Rafa’s hair on his nape. Rafa’s softest peck on Nick’s shoulder when he sways turned with his back in Rafa’s arms. Smiles shared. Nick’s head snuggling to Rafa’s chest like a purring cat, when he’s lifting himself up from bent legs, rubbing his forehead across Rafa’s chest and then gliding his whole body against his front, to feel him, to make sure, to know. _You want me. You want me, too._

_Go, give love to your body_

_It's only you that can stop it_

_Go, give love to your body_

_It's only you that can stop it_

The joy that sparks the fire making them forget themselves into carefree swirls with palpable desire growing. Raw need now shared, now together. Rafa gets high on Nick’s heat in his arms, skin scorching hot, sleek, under his palms. Not enough of it, so he sneaks his hands under Nick’s shirt, to his back, to graze the muscles straining there when Nick’s bent forward and rocking on Rafa’s thigh. His palms travel lower then, to support Nick, to pull him closer against himself and map his ass, firm, tights fitting in every angle there and he guides him in undulating rotation now, gasps and sighs audible over the sound of music. Nick responds by scratching the skin on Rafa’s head and panting into his mouth needily, lips moist, ghosting Rafa’s. The music continues, anthems about desperate need spreading, making the skins tingle, bones melt and muscles ripple. Rafa’s moving them now, with Nick wrapped around him with arms and legs and he’s pushing him against the wall, as they breathe air from each other’s mouth. Nick’s arching, agreeing, saying _yes_ , saying _please_ , saying _more_ , giving permission and Rafa complies.

Nibbling on Nick’s bottom lip with his teeth, hands on the back of Nick’s thighs, large, supporting, strong, pulling him close and saying his own part: _yes, I want you, I’ve always wanted you, so much._ They’re kissing. Tasting each other with whimpered breaths, and mouths shy and disbelieving. Nick’s hand grips on Rafa’s hair at the back of his head, asking for more, inviting, his mouth’s now open and God, he’s smiling, like he’s drunk, like he’s drunk on that taste already. Rafa cradles his cheek, still supporting them with his other hand and meets him halfway, mouth mirroring that smile. Now it’s all about open-mouthed desperation and Rafa drinking that flavor he’s been yearning after, thinking about fruit and juices and something sweet and overflowing then and nothing compares. It’s sweet, moist, warm and sleek, Nick’s mouth is and his tongue and he hasn’t had enough and he never will. He plunges for more, to show him, to let him now, how insatiable he is, how Nick is wanted, wanted so much, so completely. Has always been. And now there’s shape of the sound of his name like something physical, palpable on Nick’s tongue, muffled in a broken moan Rafa swallows, greedily. _Mine, mine, mine._ He’s still so hungry for it, swirling on the core of this sweetness, with hips rocking in similar motion.

They need to breathe, even if it’s difficult to tear himself away from that mouth he drinks from. But he does, to Nick’s whimper turning into drunk chuckle of someone bursting with happiness. Still wrapped with their bodies, hands roaming now, they lean their foreheads together, inhaling and exhaling together. The music stopped playing and they didn’t even notice. Rafa focuses on the rhythm of his own heart hammering in his ears and Nick’s hoarse and heavy chants of his name. “Raf, Rafa, please, oh God.”

Rafa responds to each breathed out plea with a kiss: behind Nick’ earlobe ( _Rafa_ ), on his neck ( _please_ ), on his cheek ( _oh_ ), in the corner of his mouth ( _Raf_ ), his nose, his eyebrows, his eyelids, his foreheads. Nick’s arching and nuzzling him, that smile shaping his lips, making his eyes crease (Rafa is peppering his laugh lines with soft, little pecks) and Nick breathes out, it comes out like a shuddery laughter of an immense relief and overwhelming bliss, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time, waiting, waiting for this, waiting for Rafa to catch up to find him here. Rafa did and he thinks he never felt anything like this. Like being reborn. In a way, he’s been. This sun he now holds in his hand brought him back.

Nick’s now talking, voice breaking, hoarse, to the top of Rafa’s head, because Rafa is tracing the hollow of Nick’s neck with his lips, lifting him up, even higher, with the frame of his strong arms. “So does it mean you’re dancing to hip hop for me, Raf?”

“Anything, anything you want, Nick,” Rafa answers without a second of thought, mouths the promise to the side of Nick’s neck and into his earlobe now with warmth and wetness to which Nick leans and sighs, with hands traveling upwards and downwards of Rafa’s back, catching on his shirt, lifting it up to graze skin there with his nails. “Just come home, come back home, mi sol.”

He’s absolutely insatiable now. As if the tame broke and he’s reveling in the taste of life and it’s physical, tangible on his tongue, inside his system and it’s Nick’s taste. It’s always been Nick’s taste. He noses Nick’s skin (inhaling, consuming) upwards, kisses his chin and traces his lips with his own again. He’s the one pleading now, he’s the one asking if Nick allows him more. “Jesus, Rafa,” Nick grunts, fingers digging into his shoulders and heels of his shoes stroking Rafa’s sides, to settle himself more comfortably around these thighs, he’s giving in instantly and they are back to kissing, and kissing some more. Hums and chuckles and silent moans muffled into busy mouth.

And then, Rafa’s releasing him, so that Nick’s standing. Bodies wired, refusing to be separate, his hands trail Nick’s arms as he repeats, noses stroking. “I’m serious, Nick. Will you come home? There’s hot chocolate. I told you?”

“I know there is. I already had it,” he’s chuckling to Rafa’s mouth, a playful lick of his tongue there, a hint.

“There’s more. There’s all the hot chocolate you want to have for you, tesoro,” Rafa’s nosing his cheek, the line of jaw and back to his nose. He can’t stop himself. He can’t stop.

“Raf, God,” Nick’s palm now trembles on Rafa’s cheek, like he’s making sure he’s physical and there and real. Holding him close, not being able to let go, touching, touching, all the time. “Are you serious? Is this what you want?” he sounds so unsure, like what he’s really asking is: _is this real? Do you want me?_

Rafa cradles Nick’s face in his hands, peers into his eyes, with focus and seriousness, so that he could hear, so that he could understand and know, for sure, absolutely. “Nick. I was blind. I was angry. I was selfish. Now, I know. Now, I see. And nothing’s more clear to me now. I want you, Nick,” and then he accentuates each word with a kiss, “I,” to a forehead, “want,” to a nose, “you,” to one corner of Nick’s lips, “Nick,” to the other to which Nick’s hand is on his nape, gripping, clutching and he’s pulled into a long, lingering kiss with a whimper of emotion tasting like joy.

“Raf,” Nick murmurs, licking his lips, like savouring that taste Rafa left there. The sound of Rafa’s name from Nick’s mouth is quickly becoming a whole new word, with meaning redefined all the time. Now, it’s respite. It’s comfort. It’s trust. It’s happiness. 

They nuzzle and hold and Rafa asks, just to make sure. “Unless you’re no longer interested and you’re staying for the views and the kids, mostly.”

Nick nudges his shoulder with chuckled, “Eres tan tonto,” one of the few phrases he learned, hearing it all the time from kids, aimed at himself. “The kids are the coolest. But you’re pretty cool, too,” and then his hand continues to wander to Rafa’s biceps, then tracing his wrist, lacing their fingers together, adoring but also still confirming the reality.

“So, when I can pick you up, Mister Kyrgios?” Rafa now leads him by the hand, so that they could close this place off. He’s playing with Nick’s fingers while doing so. He’s young, and ridiculously filled with sensations. It really does feel like he’s reborn.

“Technically, you’re my boss, Señor Nadal, you’re making my schedule,” Nick teases, following Rafa, seeking his other hand, now, to be now guided like a big baby.

“If kids didn’t adore you so much, I would give you an entire day off to have you all for myself,” Rafa pulls one of Nick’s hands over his shoulder to kiss his palm. Nick brings himself closer, still walking behind Rafa, embracing his back, with chin leaning on the crook of his neck when he purrs there.

“Hmmm, and what would you do if you had me for the entire day, Sir?”

Rafa turns around, to open the door with his backside and graze Nick’s nose with his lips in delivering his promise. “You will see tomorrow, corazón.”

@

Rafa sees Nick off to his room in the adjoining hotel. They stumble a lot along the way. Kissing against the walls, in the corners, hiding from cameras and from the cleaning staff. Then nuzzling and kissing some more against the door of Nick’s room. Nick hums to his ear, when Rafa’s tracing his chest, hands slipping underneath his top, grazing his stomach, nosing the hollow of his neck, hungrily. “You sure you don’t wanna tuck me in, papito?”

Rafa faces Nick now, his thumb on Nick’s bottom lip. It’s swollen from kissing, wet and there are teeth marks there, red and luscious. Rafa’a admiring his work, gasping when Nick nibbles on his finger, the tip of his tongue curious and playful there, when he says, close, heated and definite. “I don’t want to tuck you in, baby. I want to take you to bed and make love to you there. And then when we rest for a moment, I want to fuck you, too. Have you sweet but then have you hard, Nick and then in the morning, I want to wake you up with my mouth around you, spending you dry and you’re coming into my throat, sweetheart and I don’t have enough of you.”

Nick’s arching to him, pulling him close, moaning into his mouth, kissing, sloppy, needy, pliant, beautiful. “Fuck, Raf, please,” the words are sights with their lips gliding lazily against each other, like touching sustains them.

“I will. We will. I promise, Nick. My word is my bond, si, querido? Now, go rest,” and he nudges Nick to his room and their skins stop being in contact with each other only with the doors closing in.

**EPILOGUE**

Rafa waits for Nick outside the Academy, leaning against his bike, in a white tee, leather jacket, jeans tightly hugging his absolutely legendary thighs and red converse on his feet. It’s a ridiculous image and Nick pauses mid-step to possibly pinch himself and most probably end up gaping and swallowing a lot, as his throat goes dry as 80% of Australian land is.

It’s an image straight from his naïve thoughts, he often gets distracted by. From that reality where they have a life together, live together, work together and Rafa picks him up after work to drive him home, their home, where they have dinner (possibly at some point cooked together, pft), train, watch something, swim, go on a beach or maybe just fuck for the rest of the afternoon, insatiable and hungry for each other all the time.

And now this image is no longer only in his head. And now, this is reality. And everything he thought about as a part of it, might be as well. And , what feels like, his entire life of waiting for Rafa to know and see and feel the same, comes to its conclusion like that. There’s something soft fluttering inside his chest and something lumpy in his throat and it all results in his eyes watering a bit and his insides aching in trying to contain too much at once. Jesus.

“Hi, stranger,” Rafa reaches out with his hand with an open invitation, face soft, eyes chestnut brown that remind Nick of peanut butter, which doesn’t help the dryness in his throat at all. He’s inviting Nick into his arms, like it’s a place where he belongs, has belonged forever. Nick doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s there. Instantly. Snuggling to that large chest, hands travelling down Rafa’s arms to lace their hands together. His head is busy, setting itself down the center of Rafa’s chest where his heart beats to listen to it echo Nick’s. “Going my way?” Rafa chuckles warmly into the top of Nick’s head, puffing air there. It tingles and then there’s mouth leaving sound kisses on his soft curls and Nick feels like made of liquid now.

“If there’s food?” Nick mumbles sleepily. There’s tranquility spreading inside him like a warm, soft substance enveloping him from within and making him feel safe and grounded and someone’s. He nuzzles the hollow of Rafa’s neck, smelling sun, smelling his cologne, smelling wind. Languid serenity of a beach and a holiday and home. His mouth opens to taste it, moving upwards, to Rafa’s chin and hovering over Rafa’s lips, stretched into radiant smile, Nick needs to feel on his mouth right now.

He does. He’s brushing Rafa’s lips with his own, following that unhurried, safe sensation under his skin. He can do that, now. And it does feel like they have all the time in the world and there is no rush. And he can taste Rafa’s lips whenever he wishes to find out he’s just drunk coffee and it stirs shivers inside him and that quiver of yearning from before, from always, now he can quench. He does, again. Hint of tongues, a promise of later, when they are alone. Alone, together. Nick hums with a smile, mirroring Rafa’s as they share a breath now.

“Yes, baby, there’s food,” the words, warm and wet between them, feel like caress. There’s amusement and protectiveness in them Nick wants to wear on his skin like a separate layer making him strong, making him wanted, acknowledged, cared for.

“Hmmm, hot chocolate, si?’ Nick’s licking his lips, eyes heavy-lidded, still, registering Rafa’s closeness, his freckles, his laugh lines. He thinks all he wants to do for the rest of his life is stand here, in the sun and kiss Rafa. His hands go bold and grip Rafa’s ass now to pull him even closer, with a playful snicker. As if he’s not close enough. As if he’s never close enough. And because he can. Besides, that’s the hot chocolate he’s referring to, obviously.

“All the hot chocolate you want, mi sol,” Rafa’s framing his face with his hands adoring and then tilts to his earlobe to graze it with a playful. “Or can handle,” breathed out there with moist temptation.

“Hmm, another bet, Señor Nadal?” Nick leans back to smirk, hands slipping into Rafa’s back pockets.

“I still have that hip hop dance to do, no?”

“Which I’m absolutely sharing on social media for the whole world to see,” Nick sniggers to Rafa now offering him a helmet and it feels like déjà vu. Yet, so much has changed and they’ve grown through it together and Nick’s allowed to touch and have and Rafa brims with energy and smiles, and feels so strong under Nick’s hands.

“Home?” Rafa then asks, making Nick ache inside again, with too much, overflowing, soft, safe and serene. He doesn’t trust himself to speak so he nods. Eager, pliant, giving in completely. 

@

This time Nick wraps his arms around Rafa’s middle when they drive, putting his head on Rafa’s shoulder blades. His hands are on Rafa’s pecks, chasing that heartbeat, subconsciously seeking this warm space beating with acceptance and togetherness.

He does admire the views now, too, vaguely remembering the last time, when he was digesting a bile of anxiety and insecurity over what they are, who they are for each other. When he was wired with the strings attached to Rafa, wrung with the realization how he’s filled with inevitable submission to this man fueled by unrequited desperation to have him.

Now, he’s giving in, too, but it’s in trust and it’s in safety.

Manacor is beautiful, steeped in coziness of small cobbled streets, air rich with salty breeze, hustle and bustle of market life bursting with colours, smells and sounds but there’s balancing out leisurely, laid-back atmosphere of a holiday resort there, too, all of this reminding Nick home. An islander boy, in his natural element, carrying the sun inside his soul, wind in his hair, restless passion at the core of his soul. This place makes him feel like he’s in Australia and he wants to explore every corner of it to find out how much does it compare. He wants to discover every secret behind the corner, every hidden track leading to a breathtaking view, turn over every pebble to find a treasure there. 

Is he thinking about the town or Rafa, though?

He wants to stay here to redefine the meaning of home on account of both.

@

Before they have dinner, served by Rafa, because Nick hasn’t mastered this particular skill just quite yet (baby steps, he’s doing his own washing and that’s a progress), they make out outside the garage, with Nick still sitting on a bike, legs busy wrapping themselves around Rafa’s calves to pull him close, to trap him against Nick’s eager, warm body. There’s kissing chest over the material of a shirt, there’s sneaking in fingers to stroke Rafa’s abs, to mouth his belly button, and there’s Nick nibbling on Rafa’s neck to see him delightfully angle himself for more. “You should bend me over this beauty of yours, Raf, sometime, you know, and have me right here, on a driveway, for everyone to see, to know, that I’m yours,” he’s leaving teeth marks where Rafa’s growl ripples through his throat. “And I would spill myself all over it then, mark of ownership because you’re mine, too,” and there’s kissing, all tongues and teeth that follows and Rafa’s growls inside Nick’s mouth taste like desperation reciprocated.

@

“So. I have a question to ask, Nick,” Rafa’s washing his plate and throws the words out there, over the shoulder, like a casual statement about the weather.

Nick’s finishing up with his pasta, smirking around the fork in his mouth. “Popping that question, already? Is there a ring attached, too?”

Rafa laughs from teasingly raised eyebrows. “I’ve always known you’re a hopeless romantic, Nick. Dinner by the candle light, none of that hip hop of yours but string quarter playing classical music and me on one knee speaking in poetry, si?” he then approaches the kitchen island to plant a kiss on top of Nick’s mop of hair, to which he leans eagerly.

“Not a bad picture there,” he nods, feigning nonchalance, while inside his chest there’s a wild herd of birds flapping their wings to the beat of his heart threatening to burst out of his chest.

“Although, technically, I’m married, so…” Rafa shrugs, pouting indifferently and Nick ignores the jolt inside him, piercing that bubble of soft and fluttery. Mery is amazing. She’s practically the Academy, especially during last years, with Rafa retreated to his cave of isolation. Mery is knowledgeable and full of empathy. She’s incredible with kids, but also an indisputable, charismatic manager. Mery is Rafa’s best friend, his business partner and a person that has shared his life even before tennis took it over. Mery’s been there before Nick, and she stayed, and she will stay and there’s inevitability of this equation, where one goes, the other follows with them. And Nick understands this and admires this and is in awe of this. But the jolt of pain? Frustration? Confusion? Insecurity still stabs through this idyllic state he’s been in. Who is he? What’s his place in Rafael’s life, really? How small and insignificant his presence is there beside these archives of history shared together?

Rafa doesn’t miss the moment. Apparently he’s so in tune with Nick’s mood, he just knows. “Hey, are you sulking? Are you a sulking baby, Nick?” he’s by Nick’s side, lifting his chin up with his fingers and peering into his face with amusement but affection, too. “Do you want to get married? Is this about it, tesoro?” he’s murmuring to Nick’s forehead, playful but the concern is there and Nick melts under the attention, under this touch, leans with his head to touch Rafa’s and they stay like that for a moment. It stretches. And Nick basks in it. Full of _what ifs_ and _another lifetimes_. Still risks saying, partially cheeky, partially dreamy.

“I’ve heard that Las Vegas is great during this time of the year.”

“Said everyone who regretted it their entire life, si?” Rafa bops his nose now and plans to take a plate from the counter to the sink but Nick stops him.

“Let me,” and does it himself. Anything to get himself away from the _whats ifs_ and _another lifetimes_ that grow into bitter bile in his throat. What is wrong with him? Jesus.

Rafa stays by the island and comments lightly. “Look at that. Nicholas Kyrgios doing his dishes, washing his clothes. One would think I have a terrible influence on you, hmm?”

“It goes both ways, cos you’re a jokester and I’m a housewife, now. What a pair,” Nick’s rinsing the plate, turned away from Rafa and mostly rebuking himself for letting in old insecurities. Old. Huh. They never go away. Well. Almost never. Sometimes he’s so lost in Rafa and what he feels for him, on court, off it, all the time, it fills up his life to the brink more than any fears or paranoias could. He’s hopeful, and eager and strong and determined, then. He’s infinite.

“I would watch that film. I’m thinking romantic comedy on Netflix full of errors, terrible gags and cheesy dialogue.”

“Not an erotic thriller?” Nick pushes himself through this cloud of frustration that settles inside his head, on the brink of consuming him and every other thought there, faces Rafa from across the counter and winks, actually feeling the spark, the joyfulness, the lightness of being here, in Rafa’s life, in any role, in any way, in any form, returning.

“One-track mind,” Rafa waves his head at Nick in a cheerful reprimand.

“Does it have a happy end, Rafa?” Nick asks, after a beat. Going to Rafa, pulled by gravity (he can’t stay away for too long, he doesn’t want to) and looking into his face with poignant urgency. Because he’s asking about something else. He’s asking about their life. He’s that daring.

“I think it does, Nick,” their hands brush, Nick is stroking Rafa’s pinkie, looking at the image, their hands almost joined, an intimate and loving gesture, reassurance he will probably always need and Rafa has in abundance in his will made of steel. God. He’s all flutters inside, again. And it feels like there’s not enough room for him to contain it. Their lips meet, a fleeting caress, just a tender reminder, he can do that and even small taste of this confirmation is enough. Lingering sweetly as Rafa moves to the living room, now, talking.

“So, I’ve been thinking. And yeah, there was a question but we got distracted, a bit. A lot,” he chuckles, getting to the sofa to take something from it. “There is no ring, Nick. But there’s this,” and he’s pulling out a racket from behind his back, walking back to the center of the kitchen, to where Nick is gaping confused, hands clammy, though. At the assault of the memories.

The last time the racket was in use between them he felt like bled out dry. Like there was nothing in him left. Because he gave it all to Rafa. His passion, his devotion, his dignity, his love. He felt empty, cold and alone and the skin on his wrung body reminded him for days to come about it. He still remembers cherishing every mark Rafa left then. He still remembers feeling them like letters in print of their story, everything that’s remained, because Nick had nothing else. Nothing of Rafa’s. Ever.

Rafa’s standing in front of him, mirroring the scene from before, when Nick offered him willingly the instrument of punishment. It’s different now. Nick doesn’t feel empty. He’s filed to the brink and apologetic softness on Rafa’s face makes him feel protected and trustful. It’s not about inability to say “no” to Rafa anymore. It’s about wanting to say “yes” because believing in him, believing in them.

“Have you thought about Wimbledon, Nick? Grass season is literally in bloom, now. I know. And after your May campaign you don’t have to rush and chase those points. But, have you considered Wimbledon, this year?” Rafa’s tempering with the handle. Nick wonders what racket this is. Is it new? He has a vague memory that he’s seen it before.

“I love grass. I’ve always loved grass. After Australian, that’s my dream slam to win, Raf. But I also love …,” he clears his throat and corrects himself, even though he already said the words before. “I like being here, teaching kids. Are you kicking my butt out to London? I don’t even… I don’t actually have a consistent team, you know? And, like, God, it’s in 2 weeks time, should I even bother? Like, what’s the point?” he’s babbling, he knows. He’s spiraling. Insecurities buzzing inside his head, over the prospects, the pressure post France he rejected, pushed aside, because his yearning after Rafa took over the entire space. There are fears for what it means to them, are there even any ‘them’ and he’s now wresting with all these twisted, dark creatures eating on him, belittling him inside his head all the time.

Until there comes the grounding touch, the warmth of this solid presence, Rafa’s hand stroking his arm, bringing him back to present moment. Soft, reassuring words come through the thick layer of fog in his head. “So many questions, so little time. Nick, not even media ask so many questions. Not even media are that hard on us. Why are you so hard on yourself, cariño?” his palm travels to Nick’s cheek and Nick’s nuzzling it, seeking the warmth, finding focus and distance that helps him breathe. He’s mouthing silent gratitude to this beloved surface.

“Will you try it out, hmm? And in the meantime I will tell you a story, si?” he hands him the racket. It feels light but solid, not entirely made for his hand yet, but the texture of it somehow fills him with purpose. He nods his head and starts swinging it, with Rafa settling down on the armchair to continue.

“There was this boy, all cheeky smiles and attitude, but so much skill it blinded me, that came onto the grass one time and defeated me. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. How swift he was, how graceful. But there was a challenge. It felt like tennis changed for me, then. They started talking about the newcomers, they called them new generation. But this boy was the first one that made me realize they are right. Tennis is changing and we will be left behind if we don’t try to catch up. If we don’t try to chase and be on that new level. So, that’s what I started to do. Pushed myself harder, more. Changed myself. To meet this boy again and to win this time. This tennis we played, was magic. I felt young and creative and daring and brave. Because he was. Because he showed me how to. No longer safe, known routine. It felt like I was in the cave for so long and saw the light for the first time since forever. Saw the sun again. We chased each other like that for so many years. It felt like we can last forever. But then the time came for me and of course I yielded to him, in the end. With this racket, you’re holding now,” Rafa pauses and smiles at Nick, who’s stopped testing the equipment and now gapes at Rafa, devouring his every word. He feels flutters growing wilder and wilder now, beating inside his cheat along with his heart. “No wonder, I passed on the mantle to him. With pride. With acceptance. With understanding. Because who else I want to watch on courts of the whole world if not this bright star, shining with skill and beauty and passion and heart, Nick. And then this boy, came to me, when I was back in that cave again. And he helped me remember. The reasons. He reminded me the purpose. And I saw the light again. And I felt the sun again,” Rafa’s standing up and going to Nick, who feels paralysed, shaken to the very core with everything he’s just heard. The way Rafa shared it. Simple, matter-of-factly, but absolute. Like this is his credo. Like this is his faith in Nick, in them. There’s wetness on Nick’s cheeks now, he doesn’t know how to stop as he’s clutching to the handle of the racket, on the verge of falling apart even more. But he doesn’t. He won’t. Because Rafa’s close, taking his hand in his, like he is about to pop the question, stroking the surface of it in soothing circles, like knowing about Nick’s turmoil (Nick’s insecurities, Nick’s fears, Nick’s stormy emotions), anchoring him in here and now. With Rafa. The words reach him, deep and clear, as more wetness follows. “So. I want to thank this boy for the tennis he gave me, the tennis we shared together. That somehow became more than tennis. That somehow turned out to be my life when it mattered. And I want to ask this boy, now, can we have more of this? Can we share that tennis, which turns out to be whole life, some more, together? And as I train this boy, he helps me always remember the light to never go back to that cave again?”

Nick’s sniffling in silence that ensues. He thought he doesn’t know his place in Rafa’s life. He doesn’t have a name for himself there. He let the fears nag him and want to push himself away. He thought Rafa doesn’t want him to be in any way part of his life. He thought Mery has that, fills up every corner of this life, every role. And now, he’s facing this man, he’s admired, longed for and loved his entire young adult life and he’s redefining the meaning of home with him.

“I can go down on one knee to make it more convincing?” Rafa laughs warmly, his hand on Nick’s cheek, catching the tears, palming it lovingly, his eyes love, too and Nick falls apart, pulling him hard against himself and hugging him with his entire body (or he hopes what it feels like with his heart and his soul more).

“Yes, yes, yes, Raf, oh God,” he’s mumbling to Rafa’s neck, overwhelmed, bursting with possibilities but feeling as light as he never felt before. Like pieces falling into place. Like he knows wholeness. “I’ve always wondered, I’ve always dreamed,” the words stumble and fall over emotions pouring out of him, as he clings to Rafa’s strong body, the racket, like a seal of that promise they shared, in his hand.

“No more wondering, no more dreaming, corazón, time for acting, si?” he murmurs to Nick’s hair, slightly pulling away with eyebrows lifted in an expression that can only mean one thing. “Do you want to try?”

The spark in Nick spreads with electricity all over his body. They haven’t played the match for so long. It feels like forever. And there was never anything more thrilling than being on court with Rafa. Rafa’s offering him this chance, after practically spelling home and belonging and life with them. Nick needs to clutch his shoulders more, to feel the reality of this, to know, it is happening. God. He still manages to be cheeky, even with eyes wet and nose sniffling. “Señor Nadal, haven’t you heard. Do or do not, there is no try.”

“That’s the attitude I wanna see from now on,” Rafa nods with approval, making absolutely no connection with the reference Nick’s made (Nick’s melting) and after a chaste kiss to Nick’s nose he lets him go, heading for the gym to change the outfit.

The thrill, the heat, the softness inside Nick mingle into one pulsing anticipation. He almost feels 18 again. Before that Wimbledon match. When his tennis life began. Or, when his life began, period.

@

It’s really like then, again. Like they turned back time. Not only to the beginning, when Nick faced this titan from his dreams and soared into the infinite and thought he never wants to play tennis with anyone but him. But from every other catch and chase game between them, with this cycle winding and unwinding, the meaning of life defining and redefining and them finding each other at the center of it all, two halves belonging into a whole.

It’s not even an actual match they play. They go for Fast4 rules. Rafa decides. He’s not making a fuss about it. “I’m old and retired, Nick. That’s just reality,” he comments, cheekily to Nick right behind him with the tone. “So, I really should stick to calling you, papi, hmm?”

But it’s never really this with Rafa on court. It’s never really this with them both playing their game. Seeing Rafa in his attire (tight pastel shorts, matching sleeveless, fitting his chest and his back in all the right places, bandana, symbol of the bull untouched by time, because Rafa’s status remains untouched by it too) leaves Nick dazed with ache and desire. A combination he always carried inside him for Rafa, when facing him, in general, just something inseparably coming with the name, even just the sound of it. He remembers all the times before and now he hopes for the future, too. It’s lifting up. It’s motivating. But, it’s simply hot as hell. And this time he doesn’t have to channel it only into his game, like he did before. This need, this lust, this desperation to have him, to catch him, to be with him, to be in his life.

Because he already does.

So they give all in. The rocket shots, swift glides, accurate service games, strategic tricks and smart distractions. It’s thrilling, pushing further and deeper, like their tennis always did. Making Nick constantly think about the ball, making him react with precision. Making him play like there’s nothing more important than winning the next ball, and the next and the next.

He’s wistful it’s not grass. Rafa’s favourite surface has always been clay. But then again, it fits, to see him rise like that again. In his kingdom. Now brought back to this glory he’s never stopped being. Kingdom of red dirt. Or crimson gold. Where he belongs. Where he’s always been untouchable, unbeatable, the grandest. The red of clay on the bronze of his skin stirs the ache and desire in Nick. He wants to smear it, he wants to mould it, he wants to write on Rafa’s body, _mine, mine, mine._

The rallies they play remind Nick Rafa’s words. And he has a suspicion Rafa’s doing this on purpose. Putting on a show. Foreplay, if you will. Nick’s absolutely on board. And so the exchange starts slow, probing, tracing the ground, like mapping skin. It builds, unhurriedly, to more determined movements, to pushing deeper into the court, pinning the opponent, making him bend and yield and then it becomes relentless rocking of bodies, full force, grunts and moans echoing in the area, sweat dripping from skins and muscles burning pleasantly from the effort to sedate the needs.

Nick’s hard by the end of 2nd set, he couldn’t care less about the score, really. It never mattered with Rafa. He wanted to catch him, have him, physically in his hands but the only way to do that was by playing points, where the headlines would delude him into thinking he did catch him, he did have him. He didn’t, then and so the yearning never ceased, fueling him with scorching fire. The same fire burns inside him now but Rafa’s there, as if waiting for him, to dare, to come, to have. Fuck. He’s letting the racket go, seeing Rafa do the same.

And he might as well be running to the other side of the net. Rafa meets him halfway (because he’s always wanted to catch him to have him too) and there’s kissing. Rough, frenzied, hungry. Rafa’s sweaty and warm beneath his hands, real, physical, pulsing with victory and strength. Brimming with tennis that’s still in his blood, forever, now cultivated with Nick. And Nick drinks more of him like this, from his mouth, from his salted skin, which he licks now, insatiable, hands tearing the bandana off, pulling on his shirts, to get to more warmth, more sleekness. 

“Fuck, Raf, I’ve always wanted to do that. Lick every inch of you, right there, after match, on court, for everyone to see,” he sounds muffled, tasting that heated bronze, not having enough, pulling on wet hair, grazing lips with teeth and moaning into open mouth.

“That would have been a real treat for the media, Nick,” Rafa’s grunting but it sounds amused, like he’s high on his own possibilities, lips shaped into dazed smile, hands on the small of Nick’s back, pulling him close, to feel his hardness, to make him feel himself, too. They both moan now, Nick’s trying to wrap himself around Rafa, to feel more, to have more of this sensation but it’s uncomfortable to do.

So Rafa’s finding a solution and pulling them down, on court, letting Nick straddle him there, among clay, they are both covered in anyway. Feeling the solid ground underneath, Nick’s growling in satisfaction and starts to rut himself against Rafa’s hardness in abandon, hands lifting Rafa’s shirt up, nudging him to take it off. “Come on, fuck, Raf,” whimpered, wet and hot, against Rafa’s mouth.

Rafa lets him and Nick feels dizzy, upon the skin revealed, shining with sweat, patches of hair, muscles rippling. Time didn’t touch it. Rafa did not let it. He’s always been steel, because it wasn’t the matter of tennis being gracious to him or not. Not even his body. It was a state of mind and Rafa being relentless warrior in his heart, too. So he remained, the image of broad, intimidating, resilient glory and Nick can worship it now. His mouth tries to be everywhere, making Rafa bend for him, like giving in to him. Jesus. It almost makes him come. To see this monument of awesome respond to his touches, to his bites, to his licks. Nick tells him with tongue. Writes entire paeans on his pecks and his abs, tasting salt, tasting honey, tasting that sun. Rafa’s bucking against him that makes Nick feel his hard cock against his ass and it’s enough for him to come into his pants, like a fucking adolescent punk. He’s a bow in Rafa’s arms, riding it out shamelessly, whimpering when Rafa’s mouth now marks the entire arch of his neck, with licks and bites, anchoring him through orgasm.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, Jesus,” he’s mewling, still rocking his hips, feeling Rafa’s hardness there. “I need to work on my stamina, Raf. As in, we need to do this a lot so that I’m not coming after 5 minutes of just licking you. Jesus. So good,” he’s languish now, swaying on Rafa’s lap, nosing the skin on his cheek, behind his earlobe. Rafa’s pulling his hair now and travels with his tongue along his jawline straight to his mouth to cover his yelp and purr, like a juicy snack and then he murmurs to Nick’s ear.

“Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do to you on clay, Nick?” Rafa teases his earlobe and Nick shudders like he’s body wired with Rafa’s, like he’s bound by a physical thread, responsive, giving in, wanting, wanting, wanting. He was spent and listless and now his cock stirs and the heat inside him shimmers from ambers to sparks now. He whines, shameless, needy, open about it now. Because he can.

“Show me, Raf, please, show me.”

And Rafa does. He reaches for the hem of his green sleeveless and Nick’s embarrassingly quick in lifting up his arms to help him get rid of it. Then it’s time for Rafa to feast as he does, languish consumption like Nick’s a whole table of delicacies to eat from. Tongue gliding on his nipples, teeth grazing them into hardness, mouth adoring his chest and his neck. And Nick’s an instrument for Rafa to play on, again, arching for more, legs wrapping tightly, to feel that hardness against himself. He’s growing hard and needy and he chuckles. “Okay. We can work on that right away. I’m counting,” that ends with a loud moan when Rafa turns him over now and pushes him on the ground, lifting his hips, his ass still clothed in shorts up in the air.

Nick’s hands graze the dirt , lifting the dust up, making it settle all around them, like a substance of ritual, of binding them, of wedding them. Rafa covers him from behind, with his large, shielding, grounding body, cock still trapped in his pants nested against Nick’s opening and palms covering palms to slide them on clay, to gather the crimson gold on their skin more.

“I wanted to push you on the ground like that, so that you’re all on fours, bending for me so nicely, fitting in every angle like you were made for me and I wanted to fuck you like that, from behind, ferocious, unforgiving fucking, Nick,” he does. He’s ramming into Nick, now, hands painting red all over his chest from behind and then his quivering back, moulding him in clay, with cock claiming him over the material, but still, he can feel it, feel it hard and ready to plunge, to claim, to fuck him loose, like he wants, wants so fucking much.

“Fuck, do it, Raf, please,” the sounds he’s making, pushing back, earnest, desperate, asking for it with his body, hard and leaking himself. He’s no longer ashamed. He wants to spell out loud how much he belongs. With every eager thrust back, stretching for Rafa to mark him and to rock into him more.

“And I thought of you spilling on that red dirt, spilling for me, writing on that court with your come how you’re mine, Nick. Because you are and I fucked my fist under shower, thinking about that, yearning for that, every time, niño” and Rafa’s moves become irregular when he bites into Nick’s shoulder blade, coming into his pants, like Nick did, and this thought alone, also Rafa’s breaking grunt over painting that picture, of the same desperation that was burning Nick out pushes Nick over the edge the second time, his underwear gross and sticky now and his entire skin marked crimson for the bull.

Nick’s swearing into the ground, body still shaking, coming from that high. Rafa’s there, anchoring him, fingers laced together, Nick’s back peppered with soft kisses. “Tan hermoso, mucho caliente, mío,” with words tingling there like freshly made tattoos. 

“That would be much more convenient, Raf. The mess in my pants is honestly ridiculous,” Nick laughs and Rafa joins him, the vibrations on his bare skin spread with a pleasant buzz. He feels sated and full. He’s in Rafa’s arms, under the sun, completely spent by him, marked and owned, without whips of punishment and lashes of rejection, but with bite marks of passion and crimson red of reciprocation. He’s purring and Rafa nuzzles his damp hair with affectionate.

“It was all according to plan, baby. To get you all filthy. To then have a shower with you, hmm,” murmured to Nick’s nape (leaving goosebumps there) and he’s lifting himself up, helping Nick up too and heading back home. He’s slipping his shorts down on the way, the underwear joins them, as he’s swaying with intent, seducing, inviting, as if he’s not a beacon of everything that matters, body covered in clay, ripped with strength and grace or not, Nick would follow him straight into fire anyway.

@

They stumble through the corridors upstairs, knocking off pieces of the decour, some picture frames, maybe pot plants, too. They’re both naked, leaving smudges of red on the walls, when Nick pushes Rafa against one of the drawers to laugh into a kiss with hands busy on his thigh and his ass, digging into the flesh, pulling them closer, making their cocks brush playfully. Like teenagers, discovering physicality, learning about want fulfilled. This is exactly what they are. The rush and hunger is brimming inside and they seek it on each other’s body. Nick can’t even admire Rafa’s nakedness. It still feels like their chase game, with Rafa now pining him against the wall on the stairs, under the series of photos from the tour hanging there (Nick notices, Nick sees all the traces of tennis life coming back to the house, to make it into home, just as the acceptance for it, healing grief), to lift his thigh up, hike it on his waist and make him feel the raw want rising as they share sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.

They get to the shower cabin eventually, the path is marked by crimson of their bodies, their stations on the way to salvation, acceptance and healing. Punishment and yearning forgotten. And there, under the spray of hot water, washing them down, a baptism of their new path, Nick can finally see and adore. With eyes, first: Rafa’s broadness and power have not diminished over the years, on the contrary. His body shows his will: steel, monumental, mighty. Nick feels his knees going weak, under the wave of awe and want for this man. So his hands join in, act under the instinct of worship growing in him. He’s mapping every inch of this golden, wiping away the crimson, revealing almost sculptured magnificence of this hero. It’s almost spiritual adoration he’s doing now. Bringing himself closer, feeling how their bodies keep on affecting each other, but focused on showing his reverence now. And he’s washing Rafa, slides onto his knees to do that, to pay his tribute, to show his pliancy, his absolute devotion. Rubbing his stomach with a sponge, then his hips. His thighs and calves, too. Slow, gliding movements, like learning the curves, angles and shapes by heart. Now that he can. With his cherishing touch he’s letting Rafa know. How his body remains, glorious, strong and beautiful. He soaps his half-hard cock, too. Mouth watering for a taste, desperate to feel him in his mouth, like he dreamed of so many times. Filling him up, making him feel so deep, under his skin, who he belongs to, and how Rafa wants him too. He’s tracing the slit of the head with his fingertip, fondling the shaft and murmuring hazily.

“Hmmmm, Rafa. You’re so beautiful. God. So hot and beautiful,” he nuzzles soft skin there with his cheek, dreamily.

“Are you talking to my dick, sweetheart?” Rafa laughs, playing with Nick’s messy strands now and nudging him to stand up.

“Among other things. I was actually talking about your entire person, Señor Nadal,” Nick’s now leveled up with Rafa, smiling lazily, purring, sliding his body against Rafa’s in slow, rocking manner. “But your dick? Iconic,” his hands grab Rafa’s buttocks to make them move together, like they were dancing before, hips locked in sacred communion. “Equally there with your ass. God. I wanna have both. I wanna blow you and eat you out. I wanna do everything, Rafa,” and they are kissing, under soft strands of water, rinsing the rest of clay from their bodies. Nick’s pulling on Rafa’s lip, the tips of their tongues meet in sync with their cocks and Nick’s moaning, feeling so raw in need for him, and unafraid, embracing it completely, even if it almost stretches his skin too tight, makes his chest hurt and his body become oversensitive, like charges of electricity run through it all the time.

“Shhhh,” Rafa’s hushing him, into the palm of Nick’s hand that is adoring his cheek. “There’s time for everything now. We are no longer running, si? Slow, baby, slow. Like with the rallies, remember?” and Rafa’s turning him around to bathe him, too. He kisses every inch of skin revealed from underneath the layers of red dirt he painted marks of ownership on him with. Sliding down, onto his knees. Nick fusses, wants to lift him up but Rafa snorts. “Hey, I’m old and retired, but not that old and retired. So let me eat you out in peace, comprende?” and Nick laughs and moans to that, no longer stopping him, anticipation making his fingers curl.

Rafa washes him and then his mouth gets busy there. Nick snaps in two, a fist in his mouth muffling loud shout trapped in his throat now. Rafa’s tongue is warm and sleek and feels so good, stretching him, stroking him, teeth grazing on the outside, fingers digging into flesh, leaving marks, opening him up even more for caress and sucking and sliding in. And then Rafa’s hand is on his cock, too, pumping his length with thorough dedication Rafa has for his every shot. “Ohmyfuckinggodjesuschrist,” Nick’s whimpering a mumbled string of curses and Rafa’s name, moving under Rafa’s petting him, squeezing him, devouring him, reminding him, how he belongs, how he’s safe, how he’s whole. Rafa’s tongue slipping into him corresponds perfectly with that fist closing around him, making him sway and shake in his hands until he’s climbing on his tiptoes and spurting all over his stomach and the glass wall of the cabin, with a cry shaped around that name he’s filled with to the brink.

He’s breathing hard, coming round, black spots in his vision, soothing buzz inside his head, he’s soaring, weightless, when he feels Rafa close his arms around him now, a shelter, an anchor, safe haven. There’s gentleness and intimacy, but there’s lust, too, when Nick feels Rafa’s hard-on against his quivering in aftershocks opening, and there’s pool of heat gathering at the pit of his stomach, making him want all over again. Jesus Christ.

He’s swaying his hips, catching on Rafa’s cock, making it graze his cleft, oh, so good. “Fuck me, Raf. Please.”

“Not here, querido. I promised you. I’m going to take you to bed and make love to you there,” and Rafa lifts him up now, slipping his hand under the back of his knees and embracing his back to Nick’s yelp of surprise, merged with a boyish giggle.

“What the fuck? Bridal carry?” Nick clings to Rafa’s arms, pretending mostly amused. But having Rafa carry him like that, and it feels effortless to him, though it probably isn’t, he still feels strong and athletic (that shelter, that pillar), makes him soft inside his chest and dizzy in his head. Rafa turns the water off and heads for the door. Nick feels the muscles in his shoulders, all the work he put into building this strength, all the matches he won and even lost, but poured his entire self into, it’s written on this physique that Rafa utilizes now to make Nick secure and cared for and loved. Fuck. It’s a good thing they are freshly wet from the shower. There’s moisture in the corner of his eyes that has nothing to do with their bath and everything to do with that overwhelming feeling of belonging melting his bones into mush.

“And over a threshold?” he’s laughing to Rafa’s cheek, to hide himself with emotion.

“We kinda got married today, no? So, the tradition applies,” Rafa nuzzles their noses when he plops Nick gently on the edge of the bed.

“So, this is our wedding night, yep?” Nick settles himself down there, instantly reaching for gloriously naked Rafa to come closer. Hand on his hip, the other one trailing his thigh and his stomach, before getting to the treat, Nick’s really on the prowl for. 

“Technically, it’s still evening, Nick,” Rafa deadpans, but his palm goes to the top of Nick’s head, quickly his favourite feeling in the world, if he can even choose one?, to which he purrs and leans earnestly.

“You’re being the Empire again, Raf,” Nick’s only half aware of his words, because his hand closes on Rafa’s cock now and his entire attention is diverted to it and it only. Nosing it, stroking it with his cheek and relishing in a way Rafa’s responsive, grabbing on Nick’s hair and tilting his body forward, giving himself in to Nick, equally raw and needy. Fuck. Nick clutches to Rafa’s thigh, to guide his motion, too and the other hand grips the shaft for himself to lap on all the rest. He does. With tentative licks, then glides of his tongue, he’s mouthing the head and sucking on the softness of the shaft to swallow Rafa deeper and deeper. Rafa’s moving to his conduct and it’s mesmerizing, it makes Nick want this even more, his own cock stirring from heat that coats the inside and outside of his body pleasantly. Rafa’s fingers are twisting on Nick’s curls, sending shivers down his spine as he bobs his head eagerly, loosens his throat up to have Rafa brush on the back of it, almost gagging Nick, but it feels so good, to have him deep, to have him so his, finally. There’s a palm on his cheek now and Nick thinks he could come just from this. Rafa’s feeling himself over his skin, then traces his bottom lip with his thumb, his face the expression of pain and ecstasy. Nick moans so very loud around Rafa’s cock at that, his hips now moving on the edge of the bed involuntary, hand leaving imprint on Rafa’s thigh he clutches to, more for the support than control.

“Tan cálido, tan mojado, tan liso,” Rafa sounds wrecked and Nick’s bold and so fucking high on the sensations now. Still swallowing on the length of him, pumping on the shaft, coating it with saliva and Rafa’s precum, he doesn’t even mind the taste of, because the responses drive him mad, he travels with his other hand to Rafa’s ass, quivering so deliciously with thrusting motion, and he reaches deep, into Rafa’s opening, pulsating, letting him in and fuck. Jesus. It almost pushes him over the edge again, his cock now a mast as he’s hungry for that what if.

Rafa’s puling his mouth away from himself by the grasp on Nick’s hair. Not with force, but with a rush. He’s not offended, he’s in fucking pieces. Panting, cock leaking, hard as a rock, his eyes look glossy and he was biting on his lips, stopping the moans from getting louder. And it’s all Nick’s doing. Nick whimpers to the image. Tries to commit it to the memory, dazed and so horny for Rafa.

“Another time, ángel,” and the sound of this promise, with a palm caressing his cheek, fingers gathering wetness from his lips that is Rafa’s pure lust for Nick, tender and loving, like in gratitude and adoration, almost do him in. He’s reaching for Rafa, pulling him on the bed, moving backwards to make room for them now, with rushed and gasped out in heavy need.

“Am I winning that grand slam now, Raf? Am I getting that trophy, finally?”

Rafa opens his legs, settles there like he belongs, like he’s always belonged, wrapping Nick’s thighs around his waist, hands massaging their inside, to playfully pull on Nick’s cock and then slip inside him, to find him loose, wet and ready for Rafa (he’s been ready for so long, he’s been ready for him always). “Think about it like that, Nick. When you put a lot of work into something, and you did, cariño, you did,” Rafa kisses his cheeks and his chin, palm stroking his hair, framing his face with worship. “This is how winning feels,” and he’s slipping into Nick’s warmth and his sleekness, making his body go taunt, arching, bending, almost fucking levitating.

The series of swear words, names of the saints and Rafa’s name is now on his mouth (his sermon) as he’s clutching onto sheets, adjusting to Rafa so completely, so deep inside him. Like he’s dreamed of, like he’s wanted, like he was made for. God. He thought he’s filled to the brink. Now he thinks he will burst. His head is titled backwards and he’s soaking into the bedding, feeling liquid and boneless. Rafa’s hands are on his thighs, caressing his skin soothingly and then his mouth leaves a trail of feathery light kisses from his stomach, to his chest and then to his neck, which he grazes with teeth, too, hushing words Nick vaguely registers. “Eres lo más hermoso que he visto, corazón,” his voice so gentle, lulling, it must be something nice he says. “Breathe, Nick. It’s okay, baby.”

Nick does, moving his palms sweating into sheets to lace them with Rafa’s, to seek this grounding safe feeling of being anchored, being sheltered in this strong physicality. And then his heels go to Rafa’s back to urge him to take him, take him, more, take him deeper, so that there is no point of separation between them left.

Rafa complies. Slides in even more, pulls out and repeats. Nick responds, meeting him halfway, like he does in the rallies, like he did during bachata, like they seem to be made into being, question and a reply, taunt and challenge, reassurance and affirmation. Nick feels Rafa now hit the right spot, again, just like on the court, engaging Nick into the game, and here making Nick quiver and thrust back eagerly, with a hum and a moan, which belongs to whom, he doesn’t know, they feel so united, so close, so deep under each other’s skin. Rafa’s changing the angle now, spreading Nick even wider, lifting his legs higher and now moving with more force (like building up the pace of the rallies). He’s groaning and looks so fierce and focused, Nick’s fucking cooked. He clenches around him, needy, needy for more, even more, fuck, that’s insane. Sucks him in and feels loosened up by him so good, so sleek. He thinks he’ll be coming without touching himself, his cock bobbing against his stomach, filthy wet by this point but Rafa’s there, with his palm, jerking him off, pounding into him now with abandon. The room is filled with wet slaps and the sounds they pull from each other. “Fuck, so good, so fucking good, Jesus,” Nick’s moaning, loud, unapologetic, soaring. And Rafa’s caling him _hermoso_ and _caliente_ in strained grunts that sound exactly like the ones he used to make on court.

Nick comes to the feeling of Rafa spilling inside him, his mouth on his neck sucking marks on salted skin and his hand still pumping Nick’s cock to the point of overstimulation. In the stillness that finds them wrapped around each other, sweaty and wet from each other, Nick thinks his heart stopped beating. Rafa’s still inside, filing up spaces inside Nick that always felt hollow and mismatched. Rafa’s inside him even when he’s not. That’s why Nick’s found belonging. That’s why Nick’s here now and feels right at home.

“Fuck. Oh my God. If this is the training you’re planning, Rafa, I’m absolutely on board,” Nick releases shuddery laugh to the top of Rafa’s head as Rafa’s slipping out of him (Rafa’s always inside him and yet it feels wrong and hollow for the first seconds, like having part of your body going numb).

“Oh, no, sweetheart, after few hours on a gym with me, you won’t be having strength to do that,” Rafa’s chuckling, kissing his nose, reaching for the tissues by the bed to clean them.

“Wanna bet?” Nick’s smirking, catching Rafa’s hand on his stomach to kiss his wrist. Like they can’t stop touching each other. Like they are insatiable and young and in love. Fuck. Nick flutters inside.

“Another one? I lost track, Nick,” Rafa then holds Nick’s hand as they settle on the bed, facing each other, palms interlaced in between them.

“I didn’t. I remember about hip hop, Raf.”

“Of course, you do.”

Rafa draws soothing circles with his thumb on Nick’s palm and Nick feels he’s humming inside in serenity and content. It’s peaceful. It’s good. It’s familiar. Nick still asks.

“So, Wimbledon?” unsure, feeling the thrill of expectations on the horizon, fears of not wanting to disappoint this man.

“Si. Wimbledon. And New York. And the whole world, Nick,” Rafa’s face is calm, and warm and full of unquestionable belief.

“Talking about no pressure,” Nick doesn’t stop himself on time not to grunt out. Rafa pulls him closer, their hands laced together now touching the place on his chest where his heart beats for both of them, for Nick, in faith.

“Cariño, there is no pressure. There is only freedom. And possibilities. And you choosing what to do with them. And I will still be here, your greatest fan,” and Rafa’s kissing Nick’s palm, bringing reassurance, bringing focus and relief. Grounding.

“Pft, you deserve a better taste, Raf,” it’s going to take him some time to get to his stage of acceptance. That Rafa wants him back. Not only that. But Rafa believes in him and found the whole purpose in doing so.

“Perdóneme, my taste is perfectly fine. In fact, it’s more than that, Nick,” Rafa gathers him even closer, as he’s moving to his back, pulling Nick with him, hands not letting go for a moment and Nick’s now snuggled to Rafa’s chest safely.

Nick listens to the sound of Rafa’s breathing, feels it on his skin, with the beat of his heart overlaying with his, telling him of hope, telling him of the future, telling him of togetherness. The insecurities in him recede, making room for serenity and known of being in Rafa’s arms.

The silence is comforting. The silence speaks here with words. Nick breaks it, though, one more time.

“Rafa?” he’s been using this name to communicate so many things and he doesn’t really have to say it anymore. The silence between them is rich with meaning. But he does and Rafa confirms that he’s right there with Nick in this silence, that he understands when it speaks. Like he’s always had.

“I know, _mi amor_ ,” Rafa reciprocates and so they drift away together into this acceptance.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Rafa and his team and the kids interact in Spanish, can we have that benefit of the doubt with the author hehe  
> 2) I'm sorry for the infertility trigger here, it's just a fiction, and well you don't control what mind sometimes spurts as an inspiration  
> 3) I love Mery and Rafa and didn't want to be that person that's diminishing the role of a woman on account of two dudes getting it on or sth, but sometimes it happens like that and you have a life with this person and then you become anew with another one, again, it's just fiction. Also Mary would be great with Carlos, ditto.  
> 4) Speaking of, it' a mess, I know. Rafa staying married to Mery, living with Nick, training him, lol, what a picnic for the media that would be. But hey, it's a business contract they have and they love each other anyway and are best friends, so why breaking it...No one's complaining  
> 5) blame this (i'm a simple ho) https://gymnasticians.tumblr.com/post/172626244666/rafaelnadal-vamos-new-babolat-pureaerodecima for THE RACKET SCENE (lol tbh this gifset is what spun the entire bdsm verse for them in my head but it was initially just a porny one shot AND HERE WERE ARE NOW lol), I'm so sorry, no one ever said that I'm not going to hell - still, from that initial version to this religious ceremony I made this scene into we went miles  
> 6) God, I know that bachata is probably the biggest au I pulled with them (not even that Roland Garros slam compares lol) but bear with me and think about these two like this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hCMAFEkyibc and like this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogzxiPx3Isc (From Dusk Till Dawn doesn't even have a good bachata version but the lyrics fit so well<3)  
> 7) And yep that grand finale and Nick winning other kind of GRAND SLAM (coughs) - I had to switch to Nick's POV (not only because this whole fic was getting embarrassingly exposing me with me feelings for his guy lol) but hey it was about healing but also Nick getting that D *confetti it's a parade* so where else could the narrator be but in this head. Amen.


End file.
